


History is Written By The Victors

by Dan_Francisco



Series: Kill/Capture [1]
Category: Call of Duty (Video Games), Overwatch (Video Game), Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern (Overwatch), Canon Rewrites, Civil War, Drama, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Secret Identities, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-10-06 20:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 51,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20513201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dan_Francisco/pseuds/Dan_Francisco
Summary: In 2006, the world is in chaos. The Second Russian Civil War has begun, with ultranationalist rebels fighting with government loyalists after a disastrous election result. In Saudi Arabia, the government has been overthrown by a dangerous man by the name of Khaled Al-Asad. The United Nations has tasked Overwatch to monitor these situations, but men like John Price believe that the world’s problems can’t be solved by the UN.Thankfully, for him, the British government feels the same way, and orders him and his team to begin clandestine actions against the Ultranationalist rebels.





	1. F.N.G

Captain John Price lit up a cigar as he headed into Credenhill base. Usually, he considered it a good day if he didn’t have to light up at all until four pm, but a meeting with two pompous American officers from Overwatch had put an end to his good mood. And, now, at 10:30, he was heading into his second meeting of the day, this time with his second-in-command Lieutenant Gaz. As he pulled the cigar away, he felt some stubble on his chin. Must have missed it while shaving this morning. Well, he was about due for a trim on his mutton chops anyway.

“Good news first,” Gaz said as Price entered, bringing up Russia on an array of satellite feeds. “The world’s in great shape. We got a civil war in Russia. Government loyalists against ultranationalist rebels, and 15,000 nukes at stake.”

Price scoffed, tapping away some ashes. “Just another day at the office.”

Gaz brought up a feed of Saudi Arabia, a picture of a serious-looking Middle Eastern gentleman with a beret on his head, with yellow-tinted sunglasses covering his eyes and a shemagh wrapped around his neck. “Khaled Al-Asad,” Gaz said, introducing the man. “Currently the second most powerful man in Saudi Arabia. Word on the street is he’s got the minerals to be the top dog there. Intel’s keeping an eye on him.”

“And the _bad_ news?” Price asked.

“We’ve got a new guy joining us today, fresh out of Selection. His name’s Soap.”

Price arched an eyebrow at Gaz, puffing away on his cigar. “I’m _really_ hoping that’s his callsign, and not his actual bloody name.”

“Don’t worry, I had the same thought,” Gaz said, smirking. “Name’s John MacTavish, Scottish lad. He comes highly credited. Sergeant in the 3rd Battalion, Parachute Regiment, one tour in Northern Ireland, trained in sharpshooting and, if you don’t mind the accent, speaks Russian.”

“Hmm,” Price said, looking over the new arrival’s dossier. “Alright, run him through basic weapons familiarization, make sure he’s competent with the kind of things we need on this future op.”

“Operation Gray Anvil is a go, then?” Gaz asked, surprised.

“Mhm. Send him over to the killhouse when you think he’s ready.”

“Will do, sir.”

Price looked up, staring at the map of Russia that had came up on the screen. Those two Overwatch agents had gone on a lot about how they were going to protect the Russian people, restore law and order. For once, he hoped Overwatch would do their jobs.

Gaz shifted his weight around, collecting Soap and Al-Asad’s dossiers together. “Sir, do you think Overwatch can actually affect anything over there?”

“We’ll just see,” Price replied, heading out of the room. Had to kit up to run the killhouse with Sledge and Thatcher.

* * *

“He’s on his way,” Gaz reported.

Price lifted up his gas mask – may as well show the new lad his face – in preparation for Soap’s arrival. Sledge and Thatcher were on his right, watching footage from previous runs on a nearby monitor. On his left, Wallcroft stood by, no doubt anticipating the arrival of the new member of the team. Seconds later, the hangar door opened, revealing their newest member, Soap. Lad looked rough – stubble on his face, a short mohawk on top of his head, with piercing blue eyes.

“Right,” Price said, nodding. “What kind of a name is ‘Soap,’ anyway? How’d a muppet like you pass selection?”

“Go easy on him, sir,” Wallcroft said, probably only half-smirking underneath his mask. “It’s hist first day in the regiment.”

“Sure,” Price said, gesturing to the killhouse behind him. “Alright Soap, how’s about this for your first day. Run this cargo ship mockup solo in less than 60 seconds. Gaz holds the current squadron record at 19 seconds. Good luck.”

Soap nodded, heading over to the tower. “Understood, sir.”

Griffen up top explained to Soap how he was to run the killhouse, specifying exactly how he would take out each target. Five positions, two doors to throw flashbangs through. Shouldn’t be that hard, especially if he was as skilled as Gaz trumped him up to be. Price headed over to the observation area with Thatcher, Wallcroft and Sledge right behind.

He heard Sledge’s arms settle against his gear next to him. “I heard a touch of Scottish in him,” Sledge muttered. “Think he’ll survive?”

“Regiment was built on the backs of lads like him,” Price replied, watching Soap prepare to descend.

On cue, Soap fast-roped down to the “deck” of the mockup, engaging the top three targets in the bridge. For a moment, he disappeared into the depths, but cameras allowed them to observe Soap as he continued down anyway. For being the F.N.G., he was performing rather well. If he kept this pace up, he might break Gaz’s record.

He stumbled. Hesitation in position four. Price would have to have Soap run it again until he got it right. At least his sprint to the finish was good.

“Alright,” Price said, waving Soap over. “Decent time, but I’ve seen better. Gentlemen, the cargo ship op is a go. We’re wheels up at 0200, Soap, Thatcher, I want you two to keep running the mockup. Do it until you can hit sub-24 second times.”

“Need me to show the little boy how it’s done?” Thatcher asked. “Fine, I can do that.”

“Will do, sir,” Soap replied, sharply nodding.

* * *

_May 7th, 2006_

_Väljakutse, Bering Strait_

_01:23:36_

The whipping helicopter blades mingled with the heavy rain that fell around them as Price and Bravo rode on an American transport helicopter. The storm was fortuitous – it’d give them cover as they approached. The freighter was certainly no modern warship, not that they could really detect them coming anyway, but every factor working in their favor helped.

“Team,” Price said on their approach, “our intel on this comes from our Russian informant. Intel says there’s a high-priority package heading to the ultranationalists on this medium freighter, Estonian registration number 52775. Small crew and security detail on board.”

“Rules of engagement, sir?” Gaz asked.

“Crew expendable.”

The storm was growing. Flashes of lighting showed the deck of the freighter, occasionally revealing a guard or two. They didn’t look like regular merchant marines. Usual merchant marine guards would have had shotguns or pistols, but he was sure he saw assault rifles.

“Baseplate, this is Hammer Two-Four,” the American pilots said. “We have visual on the target. ETA sixty seconds, over.”

“Copy, Two-Four,” Baseplate replied. That was their American overseer in Alaska. Guess there was _one_ benefit to having the Americans as an ally.

Price tossed out the cigar he was smoking, pulling down his mask. Across from him, Soap did the same thing. The MP5SD in his hands was light, despite being fully loaded, and he had his trusty .45 in his side holster, a gift from one of the Americans that had taken a fancy to him.

“Thirty seconds, going dark,” the pilot said. Price glanced out the side door, watching the bridge come into view. Just as planned.

“Ten seconds,” Hammer Two-Four said. “Radio check. Go to secure channel.”

“Lock and load,” Price ordered, closing the bolt on his MP5. The bridge was right there now. Ropes fell down to provide them access to the deck.

“Green light!” Hammer Two-Four called out. “Go, go, go!”

Price gripped the rope, sliding down to hit the deck. Sledge and Soap were right behind him as they raised their sights up. One of the crewmembers was raising a coffee cup to his lips, his eyes squinting as he tried to judge whether the three armed men in front of him were real or not. Second tango heading downstairs. Third one had a smoke in his mouth.

“Weapons free,” Price whispered. In an instant, glass shattered as each man fired a short burst into the bridge. Price’s burst found the coffee-drinker, while Sledge and Soap took out the other two. In the mere blink of an eye, the bridge had been seized cleanly.

“Bridge secure,” Sledge reported.

“Hold your fire,” Price ordered, heading to the door in order to head inside. “Gaz, stay in the bird until we secure the deck, over.”

“Roger that.”

Sledge kicked in the door to the bridge, granting them access inside. He took point heading down the stairs, just as they had practiced. “Stairs clear,” he reported, swinging left with Sledge crouching down in the hallway. He and Soap paused, confronted by a crewmember. However, the bottle of cheap Swedish vodka in his hands and his stuttered step told Price all he needed to know.

“Пей на здоровье, полковник!” the drunkard said, a short burst from Price putting him down for good.

“Last call,” Price muttered. He gestured for Soap and Sledge to check the crew quarters. Sledge headed left, while Soap checked right. Two short bursts from Soap’s weapon, must have been two crewmembers asleep in the bunks.

“Sweet dreams,” Sledge quietly said, looking over Soap’s work with an approving nod.

“Crew quarters clear. Move up,” Price reported, heading out to the main deck. The storm was getting stronger now. Not bad enough to warrant waving off their rides, but noticeable. Gaz, Thatcher, Griffen and Wallcroft landed on the deck now, joining them on the ground. 

“Fan out,” Price said. “Three meter spread.” 

Just up ahead, Gaz pointed out a crewmember with a flashlight. He was relaxed, calm. No idea that they were here. Second one showed up. 

“Weapons free,” Price ordered, watching Wallcroft and Gaz fire a short burst at the two.

“Tango down.”

Time to move up. Access to the cargo hold was just up ahead. They’d have to meticulously search the interior to find their target, and if the security detail was active, potentially fight their way through as well. 

“Bravo Six, Hammer is at bingo fuel. We’re bugging out. Big Bird will be on station for evac in ten.”

“Copy, Hammer. Wallcroft, Griffen, cover our six. The rest of you, on me.”

Gaz took lead in stacking up, with Sledge, Thatcher and Soap right behind him. Sledge let his MP5 hang low, glancing over to Gaz as he pulled out a shotgun. “I like to keep this for close encounters.”

Gaz chuckled, nodding. “Too right, mate.”

“On my mark,” Price said, holding up a hand to signal the attack. “Go!”

Door open. Gaz and Sledge led the way inside. Price third, Soap and Thatcher on the end.

“Check your corners,” Price reminded them as they moved inside the bowels of the ship. He happened to spot Soap neglecting an alcove. _“Check those corners!”_

“Clear left,” Gaz reported.

“Clear right,” Sledge said.

The ship’s interior seemed endless. Each hallway was lined with massive pipes that fed up, down, left, right, hell, Price was sure some of them managed to even go sideways. Somebody had opted for tubes of fluorescent lights in the hallways, and each one hummed as they walked past it. Sledge and Gaz spotted two crewmembers at the end of the hall, quickly dispatching them before they could radio for reinforcements. Wouldn’t do well to spark a firefight in these confined quarters. 

“Approaching cargo hold,” Sledge reported.

Price got into position behind Sledge, preparing to breach. No door. Looked like the cargo hold wasn’t worth having one. “Stack up,” Price ordered, hearing the subtle shuffle of boots behind him.

Sledge dared to peek around the corner, met by a hail of gunfire. Must have gotten on alert when the bridge and deck teams didn’t report in. Price prepared a flashbang, bouncing it off the wall just inside the cargo hold door. 

The order to burst through and begin engaging the now disoriented and blinded enemies was scarcely necessary. Six tangoes by Price’s count, each one completely helpless due to the flashbang. Brass casings fell on the catwalk and floor as Bravo took out each target one by one, effectively clearing the area in just a few short moments. 

“Report, all clear?” Price asked.

The team fanned out, checking each corner and tapping the dead enemies with their boots just to make sure none of them were particularly good actors. Soon, only the sound of their boots against steel could be heard. “All clear, sir,” Gaz reported. They began checking containers now. All that their source said about the target was that it was in a container marked as belonging to Rushcorp, and that it was radioactive. Gaz had pulled out a Geiger counter, checking each container meticulously. 

“Sir,” he reported as they continued to search. “I’m getting a strong reading here.” Gaz opened the container, which had a metal box inside it marked with nuclear warning signs. A work light shined inside, the top of the box covered by some sort of flag. Wasn’t one he recognized. Price looked over the manifest. Arabic.

“Baseplate,” Price reported, “this is Bravo Six. We’ve found it. Ready to secure package for transport.”

“No time, Bravo Six,” Baseplate replied. “Two bogies headed your way fast. Grab what you can and get the hell out of there.”

“Fast movers, probably MiGs,” Gaz said.

“Alright, everyone topside, double time!” Price ordered, tossing the shipping manifest over to Soap. They stepped off quickly, snaking their way back from where they came through the containers and dead bodies. “Wallcroft, Griffen, what’s your status?”

“Already in the helicopter, sir!” Griffen reported. “Enemy aircraft inbound. Shit! They-”

An explosion rocked the inside of the ship, throwing Price – and the team, as he quickly saw – to the ground. Water immediately began to flood the cargo hold. Only an anti-ship missile could do that sort of damage.

“Bravo Six, come in! Bravo Six, what’s your status?”

“Shit!” Sledge shouted. “What the hell happened?!”

“The ship’s sinking!” Gaz yelled. “We’ve got to go, now!”

Big Bird’s demands continued to blare in Price’s ear as he turned around, helping Soap get on his feet. “Big Bird, this is Bravo Six, we’re on our way! On your feet, soldier! We are _leaving!_ Get to the catwalks!” 

Price and Soap began to run, catching up with Sledge, Thatcher and Gaz as they ascended the stairs to the catwalks. The cargo ship was starting to list to the left, no doubt wrecked by one of the anti-ship missiles. A fire had started in the forward cargo hold, and just as they passed by another bulkhead, a massive rush of water flooded in. He could feel the catwalk moving out from under him. 

“It’s breaking away!” Gaz shouted.

“Come on, come on!”

The water was reaching every possible level now. Price rounded the corner back into the pipe-lined hallway to see water at a diagonal angle in front of him near the end of the hallway, blocking progress down that way. Pipes broke and fell off on each side of him.

“Which way?!” Thatcher demanded. “Which way to the helicopter?”

“Right, right, right!” Price shouted.

“Talk to me, Bravo Six, where the hell are you?” Big Bird asked, clear panic filling his voice.

“Standby, we’re almost there!”

Price watched Gaz slip out the door to the deck, even as junk and chunks from the broken ship slid underneath his feet. He could hear Soap right behind him, struggling to keep up. 

“We’re running out of time!” Gaz shouted. “Come on, let’s go!” 

The ship’s tilt was nearly disastrous by now. Price ran as fast as he could, trying to maintain steady footing on the slick deck. He could see the helicopter now, hovering just above the edge of the deck.

“Jump for it!” Thatcher shouted.

Price leaped onto the helicopter’s waiting rear door, turning around just in time to see Soap make the same jump – but instead of landing smoothly, he hit the side of it and began sliding down. Price threw away his weapon, lunging to grab Soap’s arms.

“Gotcha!” Price dragged Soap up, safe and now secure inside the helicopter. “We’re all aboard! Go!”

“Roger that, we’re out of here,” Big Bird replied. “Baseplate, this is Big Bird. Package secured, returning to base. Out.”

He looked out at the sinking freighter, watching explosions consume the ship as its lights stayed on the entire time, almost like a beacon to its demise. A horrific metal groaning could be heard, even above the whipping winds and all-consuming thunderstorm that surrounded them.


	2. Shock and Awe

_May 20th, 2006_

_Credenhill, United Kingdom_

_18:36:22_

Price slipped into the meeting room, late as usual to Strike Commander Morrison’s briefings. Try as he might, Price couldn’t often bring himself to care _that_ much about Morrison and his meetings. Overwatch had never invited him anyway, so his inclusion at this meeting was something of a shock, quite frankly. A few eyes near the door glanced over at him, stiffening up when they realized who it was. Mostly Americans, a few Germans. Price swore he saw an Egyptian uniform in this crowd. 

He looked at the head of the room, watching Morrison drone on about recent events in Saudi Arabia. Al-Asad had gone through with his coup, executed then-President al Fulani on national television. That alone had sparked a response from the United States, and they unilaterally deployed practically every Marine they could extract from the far corners of the world to topple Al-Asad’s regime before it ever got off the ground. 

As Price had expected, the intervention had gone swimmingly for the Americans. They reached Riyadh within two days, storming the capital to search for Al-Asad.

“News is that there’s a confirmed nuclear weapon in Riyadh,” Morrison continued, the satellite feed hovering over the Saudi capital. “Thanks to the SAS, we know it’s a Russian warhead, Marine NEST has been deployed to the area and are attempting to disarm. We should know-” 

A wave of gasps enveloped the room. Price knew what it was immediately – Al-Asad had gone and done it, detonated the nuke right when the Americans were closest. Morrison turned around, confused for only a moment until he dropped his papers in shock. The explosion was overwhelming the feed, and it drew back to capture the devastation in all its horrific splendor.

Price silently slipped out as the meeting descended into chaos. He had to talk to his Russian, find out what he knew about this.

* * *

_June 5th, 2006_

_Northern Azerbaijan_

_02:00:34_

Price hated dealing with Kamarov.

The idiot Russian had nearly gotten Price and his team killed in Beirut four years ago, when his team of Spetsnaz had nearly blown their cover. Unfortunately, Kamarov and his loyalists were Price’s best bet for operating in this area. 

“Our contact should be just ahead. Russian loyalist.”

“Loyalists, huh?” Gaz asked. “Are these the good Russians or the bad ones?”

Price smirked, crossing the lonely road they had inserted just beyond. “Well, they won’t shoot us on sight, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Yeah, well, that’s good enough for me, sir.”

A Russian emerged from the bushes across the road, waving them over. He wore a classic post-Soviet camouflage uniform, marked with streaks of green and brown on top of a tan base, an AK in his hand. “Al-Asad is in the village,” he said quietly, jerking a thumb behind him. “The Ultranationalists are protecting him.” 

“Perfect,” Price said, gesturing for the team to follow him. “Move out.” 

As they followed the Russian, distant screams and gunshots echoed off the trees and passes. Price knew the ultranationalists were using this place as a safe haven across the border, but did they honestly think they could massacre an entire town and get away with it? The brazenness of it reminded Price of a long-gone era, harkening back to Soviet days. 

“What the bloody hell’s going on up there?” Gaz asked.

“It’s the Ultranationalists,” he answered, in heavily accented English. “They are killing the villagers…”

“Yeah, well,” Gaz shot back, his voice full of venom, “not for long they’re not.” 

They tracked the nearest source of the gunfire to an unassuming two-story house. Price swallowed his anger best he could. Overwatch was meant to _stop_ things like this from happening, and where were they now? Probably off in Geneva, debating how best to condemn the civil war here and avoid damning the US for a unilateral invasion of a country. 

“Wish we had some air support,” Gaz muttered, crawling next to Price. “Didn’t Kamarov say we’d have a Hind on task for this?”

“Hind’s too loud,” Price replied. “We’ve got to get past these lads the old-fashioned way. Or just shoot them. Either one.”

“Is Al-Asad in there?” Soap asked, pointing to the building.

“Ask the Russian.”

The Russian shrugged unhelpfully. “All Sergeant Kamarov told me was that you wanted Al-Asad alive. He’s in this village, but I don’t know where.”

“Searching this whole village is going to take all bloody night,” Gaz said, irritated. He had a point – they couldn’t possibly take the time to look through each building. 

“You, where’s the highest point in this place? Al-Asad will want a nice view when he wakes up in the mornings.”

The Russian looked around, almost as if judging the area. After a few minutes, he pointed up the hill. “Up there. Farm. I think they have sheep or something.”

The screams began to grow louder. Looked like saving the villagers would have to wait, or maybe they _could_ just get a Hind to level the area. Price sighed heavily, watching the ultranationalists wander out of the house. They were relaxed, calm. Not anticipating a fight at all. For them, this was just your average Sunday, murdering innocent civilians. 

“Team,” Price said quietly. “Weapons free.”

The sound of brass hitting the ground, followed up quickly by the sound of bullets hitting flesh. The Ultranationalists’ screams were barely registered as they hit the dirt, penalty enough for their crimes. Price and his team cleared the building, ensuring that it didn’t host any troops that could shoot them in the back as they moved up. The true horror of the Ultranationalists garrison here soon became apparent as they came across a burning building, with reeking bodies just outside of it. Price had _thought_ they were moving down the street stealthily, but the sound of a Russian machine gun opening up in a second story window, mixing with shouted Russian, soon filled the air and broke any illusion of stealth. 

“Contact front!” Soap shouted as he ducked into cover. No point in being quiet now. Price fired back as he ran, hoping at least some of his bullets could suppress the machine gunner and force him to ease up for a moment. Right about now, he was really wishing Sledge and Thatcher were here, instead of Soap and Griffen. 

“Push through!” Price ordered. Just as he peeked out to keep firing on the machine gunner, a bullet pinged off his cover. That wasn’t from the MG. No, that was aimed. Sniper.

“Sniper in the bell tower!” Gaz yelled.

Price glanced up the street. Usual Russian Orthodox church at the top of the road, right where the bend turned into a hairpin to snake back up. Soap had already adjusted his sights to it, firing back on the sniper as Price, Gaz and Griffen moved up to keep pressure on the machine gunner. The sniper battle seemed to be going in Soap’s favor. So far, the FNG was proving his worth.

“Sniper down,” Soap reported.

Price took the opportunity to keep moving, firing a grenade from his M4’s attached grenade launcher into the machine gunner’s window. If that didn’t put him down, he didn’t think much else could. “Move up, we’ve got to get to that farmhouse and clear it.”

“You think Al-Asad’s in there?” Griffen asked. “Shouldn’t we clear these houses along the way?”

“No time, get moving.”

Gaz and Wallcroft led the charge, taking point as they advanced up the hill. He could hear confused, panicked Russian just up ahead. Something else was breaking over the noise. Diesel engine, tracked vehicle of some kind. As Price looked up the hill, he spotted it.

“BMP!” Price shouted. “Get to cover!”

The enemy BMP-2, a crude black star with an inlaid hammer and sickle painted on it, rolled down the hill towards them before stopping. He could hear the turret turning, no doubt preparing to open fire, but the crew either didn’t have night vision on, or couldn’t see them even with it. A bright spotlight filled the road with light, temporarily blinding him. Kamarov hadn’t said anything about enemy armor in this area. If this BMP had a crew that was more on the ball, it could have annihilated them. As usual, Kamarov had not been forthcoming with the details.

“Bloody hell,” Gaz yelled. “That thing’s going to rip us up! Did any of those Russians have an RPG?”

The Russian chuckled, heading out of cover. “Don’t worry about it, friends,” he said, having produced an RPG from his back. With one rocket, the BMP-2 was destroyed, but the sound of Russian still in the air was unmistakable, especially when coupled with the clatter of an AK. However, without their fire support, it was only a matter of time. Price glanced to his right – the sun was starting to rise, and the farmhouse was looking practically picturesque in the morning light.

The sound of dying Russians couldn’t add much to the brilliant scene, though, and after a short firefight with the remaining Russians, Price and his team approached the farmhouse. He could hear shuffling and distressed Russian on the other side of the wooden door, mixed in with panic-filled Arabic. Al-Asad was here, alright.

“Remember,” Price said, preparing to open the door. “We need Al-Asad alive. He’s no good to us dead.”

Gaz, Soap, Wallcroft and Griffen stacked up behind him, with the Russian taking a more relaxed position and watching their back. Price prepared a flashbang. No doubt the Russians inside would be waiting for them. He opened the door just a little, enough to bank the flashbang inside. One pop later, and he charged in with Soap and Gaz right behind. Two shots took town the guards, and a solid punch to the face sent Al-Asad to the floor.

Price sighed, looking over the dingy and dusty room that was now to be their interrogation room. Could be worse places to handle it.

“Gaz, get me some zip ties. Soap, go outside and get a few buckets of water, and tell the Russian to alert us if any more ultranationalists show up.”

“Understood, sir,” Gaz said, pulling over a folding chair. Soap nodded, already on his way out. Price lugged Al-Asad over to the chair, tossing him on it and conducting a search of his person. Usual items. Phone, notepad, wallet, keys to something. Probably a car that didn’t exist anymore. Price moved Al-Asad’s hands behind his back, preventing him from getting out of the chair. Nearby tractor had a usable battery in it – that’d be helpful if they needed more direct measures. His shemagh wrapped around his neck would help for waterboarding.

And, if all else failed, Price could always just use his fists.

Soap returned with the buckets, letting Price know that Kamarov’s man would alert them. One problem down. The other one was sitting in this chair, just waking up from his little nap.

“Good, you’re awake,” Price said in Arabic, lighting up a well-deserved cigar. “Let’s make this easy, right? Do you know who we are?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Al-Asad replied. “The Russians will come here and kill you all!”

Price smirked. Well, at least he was all there mentally. “Right. You mean those terrorists down in the village, murdering everyone they see? I think we ran into a few of them.”

“You play with forces you don’t understand, American.”

Price threw a solid left hook almost immediately, nearly knocking him off the chair. “Do I bloody sound American to you? Let me cut to the chase. Where did you get the bomb from?”

“I’ll never tell you,” he muttered. “You Westerners have destroyed my country. I took that pleasure from your American overlords.”

“What was your plan? Kill thirty thousand American Marines and expect the world to bow down to you?”

Al-Asad looked up, his sunglasses tilted and about ready to fall off. With a defiant smirk, he spat a glob of blood towards Price, only narrowly missing. In response, he stood up and gestured for Soap to bring over a bucket as he tore the shemagh off Al-Asad’s neck.

“Told you to make it easy. Now we have to make things hard, and nobody likes that.” Price switched over to English, taking the bucket in his hands. “Take the shemagh, cover his head with it.”

“Yes sir,” Soap said, aligning himself before Al-Asad. Once Soap was ready, Price poured water over him, sputtering drowning noises emanating from his throat. Price let up if only for a moment to give him a spot of hope. Once more, that ought to loosen him up.

“Let’s try this again,” Price said as Soap took off his shemagh. “Where did you get the bomb?”

“I’ll never tell you!” Al-Asad shouted, coughing from the lack of air.

Price shook his head. Time for another go. Soap put the cloth back over his head, causing Al-Asad to struggle against it. Another round of waterboarding. Price was halfway impressed – he was actually resisting the waterboarding fairly well. Maybe it was time to switch gears. Price tossed the empty bucket away, nodding at Soap to do the same with the shemagh. Price started beating Al-Asad, with Gaz and Soap standing by to observe.

“Why’d you do it?” Price demanded. “Where did you get the bomb?”

Al-Asad groaned against each punch, coughing up blood. “I won’t tell you! Never in my life!”

He heard a ringing as her started to go for another bout with the prisoner. Price turned to see Gaz examining his mobile phone.

“It’s his mobile,” Gaz announced, tossing it to Price.

Price said nothing as he answered it, waiting for whoever was on the other end to start speaking.

“Al-Asad,” the voice said in Russian. “Where are you? My men haven’t heard from your guards.”

Without a second thought, Price hung up, turned around, and shot Al-Asad once in the head with his pistol. Gaz shifted his weight, nonplussed by the execution.

“Who was that, sir?” Soap asked.

“Imran Zakhaev.”


	3. Ghost Town

_October 7th, 1996_

_Outside Pripyat, Ukraine_

_09:22:36_

Price let his breath release slowly as Captain MacMillan examined his Geiger counter. He could see MacMillan’s ghillie suit’s hood shaking back and forth as he started to stand up. “Too much radiation. We’ll have to go around.” If anyone had told Price that only a few years after joining the military that he’d be in the SAS as a Lieutenant and conducting the British government’s first assassination since the Second World War, he’d have laughed in their faces and called them an idiot.

But they weren’t on the outskirts of Pripyat right now, dodging pockets of radiation and hoping the Ukrainian military didn’t figure out they were there. Patrols of some splinter Russian group were everywhere, or it seemed like it. Didn’t anyone tell these lads that the Soviet Union was dead? Price and MacMillan had to move carefully, though, both through the safe zones and around patrols. The crunch of dead leaves underneath their feet didn’t much help in keeping them stealthy.

This had been Price’s first real insertion into hostile territory, or at least the closest thing to it. Training exercises in the UK were nothing compared to having to deal with an actual hostile force, ready to kill without hesitation. Every shadow, every bush, every building almost, seemed to hide threats and enemies. MacMillan, on the other hand, didn’t even seem fazed by it. If anything, he was more worried about the bloody radiation than any potential contacts.

“Stop,” MacMillan said, holding up a hand. “Lookout in the church tower. If he sees us, he’ll blow our cover.”

Price looked up, spotting a rounded-out church tower with a handful of windows in it. Good spot for a sniper’s nest. He could see someone wandering around in it, lazily glancing out the windows every so often.

“Want me to take him out?” Price asked.

“Do it.”

He shouldered his rifle, bringing the scope up to his eye. Enemy’s head was right in his sight. Price held his breath as he squeezed the trigger, sending the round into the enemy’s skull. Within a second, he dropped, with nobody the wiser.

“Good shot. Let’s keep moving.”

Price and MacMillan entered the church in order to avoid a roaming patrol, with MacMillan checking the roof for potential traps or other hostiles. The distant sound of helicopter blades cutting the air began to inch closer, leaving only one possibly conclusion – enemy helicopter.

“Chopper!” MacMillan said. “Get down!”

MacMillan ran to the side, out of sight as Price took cover underneath one of the church pews. The sound of the helicopter overhead became all-encompassing. Price practically felt like this was the end for them – after all, what if it had seen the dead lookout, and was unloading troops now?

Price kept his breathing as silent as he could, even as his heart, pounding at a million miles a minute, seemed to betray his position to the helicopter. It hovered over the roof until after an agonizingly long minute, it dusted off.

“Let’s go,” MacMillan said, as cool as could be. They exited the church much the same way they went in, confronted by a junkyard not too far away. This must have been where they stored the irradiated vehicles after Chernobyl. MacMillan’s Geiger counter clicked, but only softly. Near the center of the junkyard, there was a river, with two men tossing bodies into it.

“Looks like they’ve already eliminated the men they couldn’t buy out. Keep moving, they don’t know we’re here.”

Price and MacMillan moved low and slow, despite being far too close for comfort to the Russians. Each one looked bored, as if they were waiting for something far more exciting than hanging out near an abandoned junkyard full of old, broken-down machines. Probably worse, he knew each time when the Russians wanted to check something specific out, thanks to his years of studying the language. Sometimes, it felt like they were just humoring the two massive walking bushes, and pretending they didn’t see Price and MacMillan.

“Stay back,” MacMillan said. “One around the corner. He’s mine.”

MacMillan turned into an open container, keeping his steps as quiet as possible. The Russian had no idea he was even there.

“Oi, Suzy!” MacMillan said, causing the Russian to turn around. A swift jab to the head with his rifle stock, and the Russian was knocked out for good. Probably for a long while – if nothing else, his military service was over. The two headed out the opposite side of the container to spot a massive force just ahead of them.

If it wasn’t in Ukraine, and didn’t belong to a country that wasn’t supposed to be here, Price would almost call it majestic. Looked like at least a thousand troops, dozens of BMPs and BTRs, and a handful of Hinds all preparing to take off. The place was positively overflowing with activity, dozens of conversations overlapping one another in not just Russian, but other languages as well. Looked like the entire former Soviet Union was out to play here – Price spotted not just white men, but black and Asian men as well. Some looked suspiciously like they had never been part of the Soviet Union before.

“It’s a bloody convention out there,” MacMillan commented.

“What’s the plan?” Price asked. Was there even a way to sneak past what looked like an entire regiment of troops?

MacMillan nodded, pointing to a line of heavy lorries. “Under there. Get ready to move on my signal, and stay right behind me.” He allowed Price time to settle in behind him, holding his fist upright. “Ready… go!”

They ran as fast as they could to the line of waiting lorries, diving under them and beginning to crawl their way to the end of the convoy. There were practically so many voices around them, Price was sure one of these lads was about to crouch down and check the tire pressure or something, and give away their entire game. Another lorry pulled up, taking its place in the convoy, joined by even more soldiers jumping out of the back.

“Patience,” MacMillan whispered. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Price and MacMillan edged towards the end of the lorry line, watching immaculately polished black boots step past them. The conversations – some in Russian, some not – began to fade away, signaling that, so far at least, the Russians had no clue they were there.

“Go!” MacMillan said, and like a bolt of lighting they charged out from underneath the lorries, making their way towards a large concrete building. Looked like a lot of balconies. Some kind of apartment complex, no doubt. MacMillan led Price behind a shipping crate, checking back on their previous position.

“Good,” he muttered. “Nobody saw us. Let’s keep moving.”

MacMillan took point, scanning the rooftops as he pushed forward. Price was right behind, unsure if this roundabout, winding path was honestly the best way to get to their position. Without warning, MacMillan ducked behind a wall.

“Don’t. Move,” he said. “Sniper. Fire escape, 4th floor, dead ahead. I don’t have a shot, do you?”

Price slowly moved his rifle up to his shoulder, tracking the position MacMillan had called out. Just like he had said, enemy sniper. Price could clearly see the scope he had, not to mention a rather eagle-eyed look on his face. Another squeeze of the trigger, and he was down, his body tumbling over the railing to a certain fate.

“Beautiful. Move out.”

Their path towards the objective led them through an abandoned playground. Old, rusty swings still creaked as if someone had just jumped off them, and a roundabout lazily drifted back and forth. Price was never much superstitious, but the entire place was giving him bad vibes.

“Don’t let your guard down,” MacMillan reminded Price as they headed through a central block of walkways between apartments. “We’re not there yet.”

“Right, sir,” Price replied, having finally found his voice.

“Hold up,” MacMillan said, stopping in front of a hallway that cut a path to the Palace of Culture. “Wild dog. Leave it alone.”

“Really think that’s the best option?”

MacMillan scoffed, slowly approaching. “Of course. Pooch doesn’t look too friendly. No need to attract unnecessary attention.”

Price and MacMillan went wide around the dog. Looked like it was eating some kind of animal. Wait, no, that was a dead body. Where did it even come from? Price wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The two headed up the stairs to the Palace of Culture, which had undoubtedly seen better days. Broken glass panels and pieces of what looked like wood and tarp covered the floor, with forgotten benches and paintings all over the place. Inside, empty chairs stood at empty tables in front of two counters, probably for some type of deli or similar.

They moved up a staircase, wrought with broken steel railings that no doubt looked immaculate in the early 80s. The second floor was as gloomy as the first, not helped by a massive gymnasium covered with trash.

“Look at this place,” MacMillan said, disgusted. “Fifty thousand people used to live in this city. Now it’s a ghost town. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Makes you wonder,” Price muttered. “All sorts of things can go wrong if you aren’t careful.”

“Too right. Let’s keep going. We can cut downstairs and we’ll be on our path to the hotel.”

Price followed MacMillan down the stairs, pools of water – probably irradiated, knowing this place – standing on the floor as they passed by what looked like some kind of help desk. A Hind passed by, but it didn’t take notice of them. Another staircase later, and Polissiya Hotel was in sight. Thanks to a Ukrainian contact, they had a .50 cal provided for them inside the hotel already.

Given the distance, that gun may be the only thing between them and a successful kill.

* * *

_October 10th, 1996_

_Distance to Target: 896.7m_

_Bullet travel time: 1.05s_

_Target: Imran Zakhaev_

_13:51:28_

“Meeting’s underway, Lieutenant,” MacMillan said, staring at the area with his binoculars. “Wind’s getting a bit choppy. You can compensate for it, or wait it out, but he might leave before it dies down. Your call. Remember what I’ve taught you.”

Price exhaled slowly. At this range, the Coriolis Effect had to be taken into account. Humidity, low as it would be at this time of year, and the wind speed in between them and the target had to be thought about as well. A line of Russian light lorries drove in, stopping to let out several men.

Including Imran Zakhaev.

He matched the description from intel. Bald, tanned skin, white goatee. Dark leather jacket, military-style trousers. Boots with a shine that outmatched his own head.

“I think I see him,” MacMillan said, confirming what was on Price’s scope.

“Should just shoot him and be done with it,” Price muttered.

“Good for you we’ve got a positive ID then. That’s Imran Zakhaev right there.”

Zakhaev lugged a briefcase over to a waiting folding table, lined with AK-47s and light machine guns. Price swore he saw a few rocket launchers on it. None of it was something he wanted to see go into these lad’s hands. There was a small flag flying from a nearby lorry just barely within his scope’s vision. He could use that to judge the wind. Zakhaev opened the briefcase to reveal bricks of gold. Wonder where he got those from. Whoever his contacts were judged the weight, tossing them over to each other. Flag died down – wind wasn’t too bad.

Time to take the shot.

Price felt the recoil hit him before he was even conscious of it, watching the bullet sail down towards Zakhaev. A burst of blood emerged from him as the bullet hit, followed up by Zakhaev spinning as he hit the ground. The men on the ground panicked, not expecting a sniper to be in play, scattering like flies.

“Good shot. I think you blew his arm off. Shock and blood loss will do the rest.”

Exhaling completely, Price took his head away from the scope, working to take it down with MacMillan. They’d have to stay low for a while, wait for the activity to die down.

* * *

Price and MacMillan headed north under cover of darkness, aiming to exfiltrate the country as quietly as possible. Though, given positively frosty relations between Belarus and the US, Price still wasn’t sure how it was possible to even get them out.

“You did good back there, lad,” MacMillan said. “You should be proud.”

“This a common thing for the SAS, Captain?”

MacMillan slung his rifle over his shoulder, shrugging. “It’s unusual, I’ll grant you that. But we live in unusual times.”

“I thought Overwatch was supposed to stop these kinds of people from getting to be a problem.”

“Overwatch is still coming out of its Cold War funk, lad,” MacMillan said, scoffing. “It’ll be a while before they’re ready to do anything.”

Price simply hummed in agreement, lighting up a cigar. He deserved it, after all they’d done today. After all, it’s not often he went out and shot people.

“Those things’ll kill you one of these days, you know that, right?”

“Not if I kill it first,” Price remarked.

“Good luck with that.”

Price looked up, watching the morning sun start to rise. Hard to believe he’d been out in the field for a solid week now. Almost made him wonder where else Queen and Country would take him.

“I’m going to put in a good word for you when we get back, Lieutenant,” MacMillan said out of the blue. “Something tells me you’re going to do well.”

“Well, thank you, sir.”

MacMillan chuckled. “Don’t thank me yet. Report’s not written. If we run into trouble with the Belarusians, I’m throwing you to them.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, sir,” Price replied.


	4. Heat

_June 7th, 2006_

_Credenhill, United Kingdom_

_15:42:26_

Price sat in the chair, fairly relaxed despite the intense, tension-filled eyes of the American across from him. He hadn’t often interacted with Gabriel Reyes, but he figured if Morrison had refused to even _see_ Price this time, he must has been royally pissed off. Reyes sighed, shuffling a series of papers around until he finally looked up at Price.

“Put the cigar out.”

“You’re in _my_ office.”

Reyes narrowed his eyes, scowling in a way only an American could. “And I’m here representing Overwatch. _Put that damn cigar out.”_

Looking into his eyes, Price got the idea that Gabriel Reyes was not the sort of man who often asked twice. He took one last puff of the cigar, extinguishing it on his desk’s ashtray and blowing the smoke away from Reyes’ face.

“Better,” Reyes muttered. “Alright, so. Two days ago, your team was in northern Azerbaijan, seeking out Khaled Al-Asad’s safehouse. Judging by the fact you’re not _dead,_ I assume it was a success.”

Price nodded. “Something along those lines.”

Reyes sighed again, flipping through the papers in front of him. “Your report says you interrogated Al-Asad, to which he was uncooperative at best. He gets a call, you answer it, and you shoot him in the head the second you hang up. Why?”

“Like the report says,” Price said. “Imran Zakhaev called him. We wanted to know where he got the bomb from. Now we know.”

“Hearing the voice of a psycho terrorist on another psycho terrorist’s cell phone isn’t proof positive and you know it,” Reyes replied, arching an eyebrow.

“I shot Imran Zakhaev with a .50 cal ten years ago. He shouldn’t have gotten up, and now he’s giving nuclear weapons to other terrorists. I consider that a problem.”

Reyes exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead with a free hand. “Okay, so – alright. What do you think your next move here is going to be? What’s your plan of attack?”

“One of my Russian contacts knows where to find his son, Victor,” Price said. “We get Victor, he’ll lead us to Imran.”

Reyes closed his eyes, tilting his head slightly. “What the hell makes you think Zakhaev’s son is going to give him up like that?”

“Imran will want his son safe, and since he leads Ultranationalist forces in the field, their offensives are gong to stall until he’s back. So, either Victor gives up his father, or Imran comes looking for us.”

“That’s a bold plan, Price,” Reyes said, tapping the papers together. “You’re lucky that we got good intel out of this, and that the Marines are pissed off enough to want to help you take these sons of bitches down. Good luck, Price. You’ll need it.”

* * *

_July 25th, 2006_

_13 kilometers outside of Irkutsk, Russia_

_06:34:26_

For once in his life, Kamarov was being useful.

Getting Bravo Six and a handful of Marines into Russia wasn’t easy, that was for sure, but it was well worth it to help these lads get some well-deserved revenge. Kamarov hopped down from a dumpster, jerking a thumb behind him as Bravo Six and the Marines moved around in the junkyard.

“This is the best way in,” Kamarov said. “The vehicle checkpoint is directly ahead.”

“Not bad, Kamarov. This’ll do nicely,” Price said, grabbing his radio. “Vulture One-Six, we’re in position.”

“Bravo Six, this is Vulture One-Six. Radio jammers are active, you’re cleared to engage the guard station, out.”

Price headed over a dumpster, granting him and his team access to the checkpoint undetected. Soap climbed up on another dumpster nearby, getting into position to kill the guards at the guard tower. Price looked around the corner. Six hostiles, two in the tower. Soap was a good shot, quick on his feet. He could get those two, and from there the rest of the team could get the remainder.

“Weapons free.”

The order was quickly followed up by a flurry of action. Soap’s rifle rang out as casings hit the ground. Disoriented Russian flooded the area, until silenced by Price and Gaz’s shots. Just as quickly as they had exploded on the scene, the area was quiet.

“All clear,” Staff Sergeant Griggs, one of the Marines tasked to join them, said, standing in the middle of the chaos.

“Alright, let’s get this place sorted out,” Price ordered. “Change into enemy uniforms and douse the fires. Kamarov, I need your men on the ground if the drivers start asking questions.”

Kamarov sighed, rolling his shoulders. “And do what, exactly?”

“Just keep them busy until we locate Zakhaev’s son. We don’t have much time, so let’s get to it.”

* * *

Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish pulled nervously on the gloves he had taken from one of the dead Ultranationalists. The RPK at his feet had seen better days, covered with scratches and a crack along its black surface, but hey, if it worked, it worked. Next to him, Staff Sergeant Griggs crouched low to avoid being seen, having opted to not even bother changing into a Russian uniform.

“Man, you look like a clown in that outfit,” SSgt. Griggs said. “Good thing you’re up here, ‘cause you look _nothing_ like a Russian.”

“Right, because you’re a shining example with the Stars and Stripes on your arm, mate,” Soap replied, smirking.

“Bravo Six, this is Vulture One-Six, we’re tracking an enemy convoy headed your way. I count six vehicles, over.”

“Roger that,” Price said. “Nobody fire a shot until I give the order.”

Soap took a deep breath, nervously tapping the side of the machine gun. Seconds later, a group of vehicles headed their way. Three larger Russian lorries, a light vehicle, and two BTRs. Soap scanned the convoy, knowing he wouldn’t see Victor Zakhaev from here but playing the role anyway. He watched Gaz and a few of Kamarov’s Russians wander around the convoy, ostensibly checking to make sure everything was in order.

“Sir,” Gaz reported quietly, “I have a visual on the target in the third vehicle. I’m walking by it now.”

Sure enough, Gaz slowly meandered next to the Russian light vehicle, looking as if he had spotted something interesting off in the sky. Soap’s grip tightened on his weapon. They might be stepping off soon.

“Copy that. All teams standby. Target is in the jeep in from of the BTR. We need him alive, so watch your fire.”

Soap slipped his finger into the trigger guard, leveling it towards the first lorry. As thin as the canvas was, the bullets could rip through it easily as he waited for Price to give the order.

“Do it.”

Two Russians that were hiding on the gas station’s rooftop rose up, firing RPGs that destroyed the BTRs. Soap soon ran out of ammunition, tossing aside an empty magazine and replacing it with a fresh one in his machine gun.

“We’ve got company, sir!” Gaz shouted. “Enemy reinforcements form the south!”

Soap looked down, watched the jeep back up and knock over a utility pole. Victor was trying to angle the car around, but… where did he think he could go? Both ways out were blocked.

“He’s gonna hit the tower!” Griggs shouted. “Hang on!”

Before Soap could even react, Victor had driven the lorry straight towards them, rocking it off its platform and sending him – and Griggs – down to the ground.

“Oh fuck!”

Disoriented, Soap looked up to see Victor getting out of the lorry while under fire, ducking behind it. He ran away, if only to be knocked off his feet for a second by the jeep’s explosion as he looked around. Where was everyone else? Soap tried to yell out, bring attention to him, but all he did was gasp for air. Victor regained his footing, and Soap was sure that he locked eyes with Victor. Soap watched him run into the junkyard as he shakily got up, swapping out the heavy machine gun for a nearby AK-74.

“He’s making a run for it!” Price yelled. “Soap, take Griggs and chase him down! We’ll handle the enemy reinforcements! Go, go!”

“On it!” Soap shouted, breaking into a sprint as he ducked and weaved in between stacks of crushed cars, forgotten appliances, and general junk.

“Bravo Team, this is Vulture One-Six, I’m tracking the target. Damn, this guy moves fast. Okay, he’s leaving the junkyard to the northwest.”

Soap burst through a half-abandoned building that probably served as some sort of garage or mechanic’s area in the past, which opened up on the other side to a rather serene road which led into a town. Which village was this again? Soap couldn’t remember. All he had to focus on right now was chasing Victor through the town.

“Okay, the target is moving… north,” Vulture One-Six reported. “He’s headed towards the outskirts of the city. Be advised, this area is crawling with hostile forces, over.”

Soap and Griggs made their way to the outskirts, following right behind Victor. Down the street, flanked by buildings that alternatively looked fine and had pieces of roofs falling off, someone had set up barricades. Ultranationalist soldiers ran behind them, alerted to Victor’s plight and already opening fire on Soap and Griggs.

“Check your fire, check your fire,” Vulture One-Six reminded them as Soap began shooting back. “We gotta take this guy alive.”

“Soap!” Griggs shouted. “Friendlies, six o’ clock!”

Taking cover behind a car, Soap checked behind him. Price, Gaz and a handful of the Russians that were with them had linked up with Soap and Griggs.

“Target is moving again. There’s a side alley on your left that might let you cut him off.”

“Soap! Griggs! Gaz!” Price yelled. “Go after him! We’ll stay here and keep these bastards off your back!”

“Understood!” Soap said, breaking from cover to head into the alley. Soap managed to get there first, with Griggs’ and Gaz’s boots right behind him. The alley was covered with tarps, forgotten pieces of cardboard, and other debris left over from a city that had gotten slammed by a war and forgotten about.

“I got movement on the rooftops,” Vulture One-Six reported.

“Movement on the rooftops, copy!” Griggs replied, already looking up. Soap glanced to the roofs as well, noting that they had now been sandwiched between two lines of commercial buildings, and the Ultranationalists had taken the opportunity to put them in a killzone. They rushed piecemeal to the edge of the roofs, easy pickings for Soap, Griggs and Gaz.

“Uh, Bravo Team, be advised, we’re spotting the target entering a five-story building on your right. Hang a right up ahead and you can get to the parking lot of that place.”

Soap, Gaz and Griggs rushed ahead, having dealt with their opponents and eager to get a visual on Victor. Another report from Vulture informed them Victor was crisscrossing his way through each floor, spotted for a split second in the various stairwells on both sides. For a man at 39 on a vodka/borscht diet, Victor was running like a 22-year old Olympian. How the hell was he outrunning Soap?

Gaz and Griggs opted to cut him off on the farther side of the building, with Soap taking the stairs up at the entrance they had come in from. He took the stairs as fast as he possibly could, meeting no resistance along the way. How had Victor managed to head into the one place in the entire city that didn’t have any Ultranationalists in it? So far, neither Gaz or Soap had managed to find Victor yet. Where could he had been?

“I have movement on the roof, standby,” Vulture One-Six said. Soap immediately picked up his pace, not willing to hang back. Price reported that he had made it into the building and was linking up with Soap. “Yeah, positive ID. Target is on the roof, he’s all yours.”

Soap, Gaz and Griggs each made it to the roof at the same time, with Price not too far behind. Soap turned the corner to spot Victor near the edge, a pistol to his head. Looked like there was only one way out for him.

“Drop the bloody gun!” Gaz shouted.

“I can put one in his leg, sir!” Griggs shouted, aiming his rifle at Victor.

Price charged forward, pushing down Griggs’ gun. “No! We can’t risk it! Soap, take his weapon and restrain him!”

“Drop it!” Gaz yelled again.

Soap slung his weapon behind him, moving towards Victor. He stared at Soap, shaking his head coldly. “Вы всё равно все скоро сдохнете…” he muttered. Before Soap could even get close enough, he put the gun to his chin and pulled the trigger once.

“No!” Gaz screamed, helplessly running forward. Victor’s body fell forward, a pool of blood pouring out of his head as he hit the rooftop.

“Shieeeet,” Griggs muttered, looking over Victor’s body. “Kid’s got some issues.”

“Bloody hell, man just shoots himself and you make a crack like that?” Soap demanded, cocking his eyebrow at Griggs.

“Baseplate, this is Bravo Six,” Price said, deadpan. “Zakhaev’s son is dead. We’re coming home.”

“His son was our _only lead,_ sir,” Gaz said through gritted teeth.

Price sighed, lighting up a cigar. “Forget it. I know the man… he won’t let this go unanswered.”

* * *

_July 27th, 2006_

_Credenhill, United Kingdom_

_18:22:05_

Soap headed into the briefing room, right behind Gaz and Price, seeing the place was already stocked full of Marines, other SAS members, and two others clad in an Indian uniform and a Chinese uniform. They were really going all-out for this, weren’t they? Who was this at the head of the room?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the blonde-haired man said, a stern look on his face. “We just intercepted this message being played on Russian national television, and on nearby European stations that have been hijacked with the signal. Hit the lights.”

Someone flicked off the lights, which allowed a projector to play a message. Soap recognized this man – Imran Zakhaev. It looked like he was in some kind of bunker or something. His eyes were full of anger as he stared into the camera.

“Our so-called _leaders_ prostituted us to the West,” he said, in remarkably good English. “Destroyed our culture… our economies… our _honor._ Our blood has been spilled on _our_ soil. My blood… on their hands. _They_ are the invaders. We have confirmed that British and American forces are working in Russia to destabilize us… they are to leave immediately, or suffer the consequences.”

The camera panned to show Ultranationalist soldiers executing loyalists soldiers, a map on the wall behind them. The horror slowly dawned on him – Imran Zakhaev had just captured a nuclear weapons launch facility.

“It’s simple,” the blonde-haired man said as the lights came back on. “Either you retake that launch facility, or we don’t live to see tomorrow. I’m tasking Overwatch agents Liao and Singh to join your team on this mission. You will insert via HALO twenty kilometers east of Gorno-Altaysk and disrupt the launch facility’s power. I don’t care if you have to kill every Russian between there and Moscow, you get that facility back, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the room replied.

“Good,” he said, nodding sharply.

* * *

_July 28th, 2006_

_Near Gorno-Altaysk, Russia_

_05:14:34_

Soap felt the parachute hit him first, jerking him around as it deployed. Parachuting into hostile territory always gave him a sense of apprehension and anxiety. Lot of things could go wrong when dropping in, the least of which was something in the chute wrapping around his neck and killing him. Thankfully, his chute had been packed well, and he drifted down without a problem. As Soap landed, he packed away the parachute and discarded it, heading to the arranged rendezvous point. Price, Gaz and one of the Overwatch agents – Liao, was it? - were already there.

“That’s five,” Price counted off. “Where’s Griggs?”

“No idea, sir,” Gaz replied, shrugging.

Their radio crackled, the tell-tale sound of a long-range signal incoming. “Bravo Six, Bravo Six-Six just activated his emergency transponder. He’s half a klick to your southwest, over.”

Price sighed, no doubt irritated at the delay this would cause. “We’re on our way. Bravo Six out.” Price took his rifle up into his hands, heading to the southwest. “Let’s go.”

Soap spotted a group of men with flashlights. He held his breath, held his rifle up to his shoulder as they began to approach. Price opened fire first, followed up by Gaz. Within seconds, the group of enemy soldiers were down, without anyone the wiser. Their insertion point had been near a road, and they followed this half a klick to the southwest as Command had informed them.

“They must have Griggs in one of these houses,” Price said quietly. “There’s an entry point through that basement door. We’ll go room to room from there. Keep it quiet.”

Price kept his rifle up high as he entered, with Soap and Gaz right behind him. Soap checked the center of the room, seeing that it was clear. Gaz began to clear what looked like a bathroom, gesturing for Soap to check out another room. He could hear snoring. Up against the wall, one of the enemy soldiers was asleep on a folding chair. Easy kill. Soap crept up behind him, unsheathing his knife silently just like Thatcher had taught him to do.

With a smooth, easy slice, the enemy soldier began to bleed out, falling on the floor and unable to call for help. He quickly moved on, wiping blood off the knife and putting it back in place.

“First floor clear,” Price reported. “Move up to the second floor.”

Soap went up a flight of stairs, clearing each corner. He could hear disjointed, muffled Russian behind the closed doors. Couldn’t tell how many hostiles.

“Weapons free,” Price said. Within a second, the first closed door was kicked down, and a flurry of confused Russian and suppressed gunshots filled the air.

“Area clear,” Liao said. “I don’t see Griggs.”

“Must be in the other building,” Singh said, peering out a window and jerking his head. “Over there.”

Price immediately began heading downstairs, gesturing for them to follow. “Sun’s coming up. We’re running out of time.”

The team exited the first house, heading across the dirt road to a similar two-story house. Small porch, even small door if that was even possible. Price initiated the breach and clear again, with no hostiles encountered on the first floor. Soap heard someone behind a door.

“Where are the others?” it asked. Clear Russian accent.

“Griggs. 678452056.”

“You know, _товариш,_ the Geneva Convention is a nice idea in theory. Why don’t you save yourself the trouble and answer my question. How many others are there?”

“Griggs. 678...”

The interrogator sighed, stepping away to throw open the door. Thankfully, it opened inward, and he didn’t see them as they came up the stairs. “Юра! Где ножеовка?”

From a room just next to the stairs, someone began to stir. Must have been “Yura.” “Я думал, она у тебя!”

“Если бы у меня была ножовка, я бы тебя не спрашибал, кретин!”

Liao and Singh didn’t need any instructions – they broke off to silently infiltrate the room Yura was in, killing him before he could get anywhere. Soap and Price headed into the room with the interrogator, shooting him twice in the back. He never even knew they were coming.

“Soap, cut Griggs loose and let’s go,” Price ordered, keeping a close eye on the outside windows.

“About damn time,” Griggs muttered, grabbing his machine gun on the table. “I was starting to think you guys were gonna leave me behind.”

Price smirked as he began to head downstairs. “That was my first thought, but your arse had all the C4. You alright?”

“Never better,” Griggs replied.

Now back to full strength, they began to make their way to the transmission tower, which fed electricity to the Russian nuclear launch station just ahead. The plan was absurdly simple – pack as much C4 as they could carry onto one of the stabilizing tower legs, and send the whole thing crashing down. The launch station had a backup generator, of course, but that 20 second window to start the backups was all they needed for an advance team to breach the electrified outer perimeter.

“Charlie Six,” Price asked as Griggs began to plant the charges. “What’s your status, over?”

“Team Two in position at the perimeter. Waiting on you to kill the power, over.”

“Understood,” Price said.

“Charges set!” Griggs called, retreating to a safe distance away from the explosives. “Stand clear!”

One click of the detonator later, and Soap watched the tower buckle beneath itself without one of its supports, falling with a dramatic flair into the valley below and bringing the massive steel cables to used to support with it.

“Charlie Six,” Price said, waving dust away from his face. “The tower’s down and the power’s out. Twenty seconds.”

“Roger,” the team replied. “We’re breaching the perimeter. Standby.”

“Backup power in ten seconds,” Griggs reported.

“Okay,” Charlie Six said. “We’re through, Bravo Six. We’ll wait for you at the rally point, out.”

Price nodded, gesturing to a nearby chain-link fence. “Get that open, we need to move.”

Gaz nodded, silently grabbing a spray can and shaking it. He remembered Gaz telling him about this – it was some sort of aerosolized liquid nitrogen that flash-froze thin pieces of metal like this chain-link fence, allowing it to just snap off as he pulled against it. One by one, the team moved through the new hole as the distant sound of an alarm emanated from the Russian base. They must have figured out something was amiss. Overhead, a group of helicopters passed over them.

“Enemy helicopters,” Gaz pointed out. “Going to get real busy here soon.”

Just ahead, Soap spotted what looked like some sort of motor pool. Must have been transports for the nearby facility.

“Gaz, take the team and scout this base,” Price ordered. “Griggs and I will look for another route.”

They infiltrated through a broken wall. Must have been attacked by Loyalist forces earlier in the year. Gaz, Liao, Singh and Soap stepped carefully over the hole, checking each corner as they advanced through the motor pool. Scattered conversations in Russian, but it didn’t sound like they had any idea what was going on. Not yet, at least.

“Soap, take those mechanics out,” Gaz ordered, gesturing to the first garage they were coming up on. Liao and Singh moved to the left, heading to a larger building with a collection of shattered windows. Soap turned to the right, spotting two Russians working on a lorry, replacing a tire or something. Two short bursts put them down for good. Just as Soap turned to link back up with Gaz and the others, the sound of a helicopter filled the air.

“Airborne troops,” Liao said, taking cover inside the building he and Singh were in. Soap took cover in the garage, not willing to risk stepping out in the open. Above, the helicopter slowed down, and a set of ropes fell to the ground.

“Bravo Six,” said an American voice. “Be advised, three trucks packed with shooters are headed you way.”

“Going to get bloody sandwiched here,” Soap muttered.

“Just get ready to start shooting,” Gaz replied.

The tension was reaching a breaking point. The helicopter troops – about sixteen of them, by Soap’s count – had finished roping in and began securing the area. They weren’t Loyalists, that was for sure. Soap didn’t know that the Airborne had gone to the Ultranationalists, but in the end, he realized there might have been enough of them who figured it was a good idea and helped train up these guys. Soap knelt down low, raising his rifle up to take the first shots when Gaz gave the go-ahead.

“Weapons free,” Gaz ordered. The lorries were getting closer now, he could hear their heavy diesel engines over the sound of gunfire and confused Russian. More Russian echoed around them as the trucks pulled up, the troops inside practically jumping over each other to get on the ground and start fighting back. Soap peeked out, practically emptying his magazine as he switched targets with the cool, calm ease he had trained his whole life for. He saw Griggs and Price approaching from behind the group of Russians. Looked like they had found their alternate route after all. Now caught in a pincer, the Ultranationalists panicked, trying to find a way out while simultaneously dodging machine gun fire that caught them out of cover.

“Soap!” Gaz shouted. “Break some of these groups up!”

“On it!” Soap replied, angling his rifle to use the attached grenade launcher. He spotted an element of hostile troops heading to a lorry. Well, that just wouldn’t do at all. Soap sent a grenade at them, scattering them – and some of their limbs – around in a solid explosion. He slid the grenade launcher’s breech open, shoving a new high explosive round in. He ducked down for a split second as bullets flew past him, a sign the Russians had caught on to the ploy.

“Gaz!” Price shouted over the radio, “we need to keep moving! Push through and let’s take care of these hostiles!”

“Can’t bloody move with that Dushka firing on us!” Gaz shouted back, right as the called-out enemy heavy machine gun began crashing through the air, a horrifically loud sound Soap couldn’t possibly forget in his life. It was almost like hearing Thor himself bringing down his hammer upon them, with matching firepower that tore through buildings and ripped massive holes in them to boot. In between bursts from the DShK, Soap heard Grigg’s machine gun open up. Was he firing at the DShK? It was hard to tell.

“Enemy heavy MG down!” Griggs yelled. “Move up!”

Gaz, Soap, Liao and Singh broke from cover, pushing through to link up with Price and Griggs as they providing covering fire for them. Enemy fire began to die down, scattering until there was little left to hear. Price gestured for them to follow him, the siren from the facility growing ever louder as they exited the motor pool to approach the base.

“Bravo Six, Sniper Team Two,” an American said over the radio. “We’re coming out of the treeline to the south.”

“Hold your fire,” Price ordered as two ghillie-suited men approached from the trees. “It’s the American sniper team.”

“Good to see you guys made it,” one of them said. “We’ll give you sniper cover once you’re inside the-”

Suddenly, the ground began to shake as a bright orange light emanated from just down the road, where the launch facility was supposed to be.

“What the bloody hell is that?” Soap asked, furrowing his brow.

“Uh, we got a problem here!” Griggs shouted as the light grew in intensity. Soap felt his rifle fall to his side, as Price grabbed his radio.

“Delta One X-Ray,” he shouted. “We have a missile launch, I repeat, we have a missile-”

Once again, the ground shook, followed up by another impossibly bright orange light.

“There’s another one!” Soap yelled.

“Delta One X-Ray, we have two missiles in the air, over!” If Soap didn’t know any better, he’d say Price was almost close to panic, judging by the stress in his voice.

There was a pregnant pause in the air, until finally Strike Commander Morrison’s voice came over their radios. “Uh, roger, Bravo Six, our satellites are tracking them now. Get your team inside the facility and retake the launch control center. We’re working on getting the abort codes from the Russians at this time, out.”

“Roger that,” Price said, gesturing for them to move out and already sprinting to head to the facility.

“Just another day at the office, eh sir?” Gaz said as they headed to the final gate.

Price chuckled, shaking his head. “Something like that.”


	5. No Fighting in the War Room

“Bravo Six,” Morrison said. “We’re still working with the Russians to get the launch codes. We should have them shortly, keep moving. Out.”

Overhead, Soap heard an approaching Hind perform a gun run just ahead of them. The enemy helicopter swiveled around for another pass, but within a second Singh had already launched an anti-air missile at it, swatting it down as it spiraled out of control and crashed into the ground.

“Go! Go! Go!” Price shouted. Already, gunfire was heading their way from the facility’s Ultranationalist defenders.

“Bravo Six, Sniper Team Two in position. We’ll give you sniper cover and recon from where we are, over.”

“Copy!” Price yelled, taking cover near a shipping container. “Keep us posted, out!”

Soap headed into the facility’s broken fence, ducking and weaving in between large containers as the Ultranationalists moved to respond to them. They seemed confused, disoriented as to where the attack was coming from as different squads moved left, right and behind, trying to organize a coherent defense. Someone spotted them, shouting in Russian as he pointed at Soap and the team.

“This is Sniper Team Two,” the Americans reported. “You’ve got hostiles and light armor coming to you from the north. Looks like up to a platoon and a BMP-2, over.”

“Keep pushing!” Price shouted, firing at enemy soldiers as he headed deeper into the maze of containers.

Soap began carrying out Price’s orders, slinging his rifle in order to pull up the AT4 on his back. “Clear backblast!” Soap shouted, crouching down as the enemy BMP-2 began to pull into view. The process of prepping the AT4 to fire was something he had practiced thousands of times before, and with the ease of pulling the trigger on a rifle, Soap sent the rocket screaming into the enemy light armor. With an extravagant explosion, the BMP-2 was lit on fire as it shuddered to a halt, barely even able to get a burst off with its autocannon.

The victory was short-lived, as a veritable wave of incoming Russians filled the air with bullets.

“Bravo Six, this is Baseplate, give me a sitrep, over,” Commander Morrison asked as they trudged under fire to at least attempt to advance.

“We’re inside the perimeter,” Price shouted, taking cover next to a Nissen hut. “Approaching the gates to the silos, out!”

Someone fired off an RPG, nailing a lorry behind them that rocked the ground with an explosion. Soap spotted enemy soldiers on the rooftops of what looked like a communications building, topped with a radar dish and several antennas. As they moved through the facility, pushing through the outer buildings and storage zones with the American snipers taking down high-priority targets like enemy machine gunners and junior officers, Soap repeated the usual procedures. Find target, fire burst, move to the next one.

“Cover me!” Liao shouted as he approached the closed gates to the silo doors. “I’m going to blow the door!”

Soap took up a firing position, engaging Russians on the balcony of a nearby building. He had long lost track of how many enemy foot-mobiles he had encountered thus far, but if the trucks at the motor pool were any indication, there was at least a full company of Ultranationalist troops here, if not more. Liao knelt down near the gate, a brick of PE-4 in his hand as he fixed it to the front gate locks.

“On your right!” Soap shouted as he watched a Russian emerge from behind a doorway with a shotgun in hand. Before Liao could even react, Soap had raised his rifle up, his red dot over the man’s chest and four rounds in him before the sentence had even left his mouth.

“Good shot!” Liao yelled back, before heading behind the nearby guard post. “Charges set! Get back!” He pulled out a detonator as Soap ducked behind cover; seconds later, the explosives went off, blowing a hole in the gate just wide enough for them to get through.

“Through the gate!” Price ordered, already running past Soap. “Let’s go!”

Soap stepped off with Liao right behind him. Inside the main launch area, two silo doors stood open as black smoke poured out of them, with huge Russian lorries with flatbeds, fuel tanks, and boxes scattered around the area. Concrete barriers provided short-term cover in between silo doors, as the familiar sound of two BMP-2s rolling their way filled the air. Soap didn’t have another AT4, and nobody else on the team had anti-armor weapons,

“More BMPs!” Griggs shouted.

“Take them out!” Price yelled. “Use enemy weapons if you have to!”

Soap dove into cover near a group of barrels, probably fuel or oil judging by the black liquid that shot out of them as bullets drilled holes through. He knew the Russians typically had at least one man with an RPG in a squad, but looting dead bodies for rounds didn’t sound like an ideal situation. The dull thump of the BMP-2s autocannon echoed in his ears as he moved from cover to cover, each previous position wrecked by 30mm rounds demolishing concrete and soft metal alike.

“Where’s some fucking RPGs?!” Singh demanded, lying low as the first of two BMPs fired at them.

“Check that building!” Gaz yelled, pointing to a nearby hut with an open bay. Soap sprinted as fast as he could, dodging bullets as the team gave him cover. The BMPs refused to fire on him once he made it in, a sign Soap took to mean either he had stepped into a very volatile room, or they hadn’t seen him. Soap took stock of the place – ammo all over, flowing out of boxes. Rifles were laid against shelving units, stored in lockers, and others piled up randomly. Lot of anti-tank guided missiles. Were they using this place as a storage dump for an offensive? Maybe. He found a horde of RPGs, lugging a massive, tan-colored launcher out.

Soap loaded the rocket in first, finding it to be the usual Russian fare for their anti-tank weapons. The scope was easy to read, despite being in Russian, and he began to track the first BMP-2 he saw. He flicked the safety off, squeezing the trigger and watched the rocket fly out and slam into the enemy vehicle, destroying it outright. One down, one more to go. Soap rushed back into the hangar, grabbing another rocket and stuffing it into the breech as he looked for the other one. _There we go._ Right side, near the silo door. Despite the mess of bullets flying towards him, he squeezed the trigger again, but unexpected the rocket went wide, flying off to God-knows where.

“Shit,” Soap muttered as he ran back in to scrounge up another rocket. He could hear Singh, Liao and Price exchanging words with one another, trying to move up without being torn to shreds by the BMP. Soap again aimed the rocket, hoping this time it’d actually hit its mark as he squeezed the trigger. This time it did, destroying the second BMP and clearing the way as rifle fire began to die down.

“Path’s clear!” Price shouted. “Move up!”

Soap tossed away the RPG, taking his M4 back into his hands as he linked back up with the team. Another pair of silo doors began to open. Was Zakhaev planning on launching another pair of nukes?

“Bravo Six,” a German-accented voice said. “This is Strike Team Three inserting from the northwest. Repeat, we are moving in from the northwest, check your targets and confirm, over.”

“Thank fucking Christ,” Liao muttered. “Reinhardt’s here.”

“Copy, Team Three,” Price replied. “We’ll meet you at the north end of the tarmac near the vent shafts, out!”

Soap continued to move in tandem with Bravo Six, wondering who this Reinhardt was, and when this mission had become so international.

He soon found out who Reinhardt was. It was fairly difficult to miss the massive man, clad in what could easily be called a modernized suit of medieval armor, lumbering towards them. Maybe that was why he had the hammer, instead of a rifle – Soap couldn’t imagine anyone using something smaller than a 20mm cannon effectively in that getup.

“Yo, give us a few to cut through the vents!” a Marine shouted as he ran up to the massive, pyramid-shaped vents that spewed hot air out.

“Bravo Six, be advised, there’s two Hinds closing in on your position and fast,” Sniper Team Two reported.

“Bah!” Reinhardt shouted, tossing away the hammer. “We do not have time!” With a dramatic flair, Reinhardt dug the suit’s massive fingers into he vent, grunting as he tore at it. The metal groaned and creaked, until it finally snapped off with what looked like minimal effort on the German’s part.

“Jesus,” Soap muttered.

Gaz burst out laughing, tossing a rappel rope down the hole. “Bloody awesome, mate!”

“Hook up!” Price ordered. “Bravo Six rappelling now!”

“Go ahead!” Reinhardt shouted, a strange, blue field emanating from his arm that extended into a rectangle. “I will be your shield!”

“Team Three rappelling inside facility,” the nearby Marines said as they too began to hook up.

Within a second, Soap had descended into the massive vents, landing on the metal with a thud as he got off rappel. Each footstep sent an echoing boom throughout the area as they moved in, splitting up to cover different ground. The Marines split left, heading for the security center to stem the tide of further reinforcements, while Soap, Price, and Liao headed to launch control.

“Bravo Team,” Commander Morrison said, “we have good news and bad news. Launch control is located southwest of your position, less than half a klick away. That’s where you’ll need to upload the abort codes to destroy the missiles in flight.”

“Roger,” Price said. “What’s the bad news?”

“Uh… the bad news is we’re still trying to get those abort codes, over.”

“The hell with it,” Price said as he hopped down to the concrete floor. “We’ll give it our best shot, out.”

Their infiltration point was near a shower room, marred by bullet holes and the dead bodies of what Soap assumed to be loyalist soldiers. The Ultranationalists must have infiltrated them from within to seize control of this facility. Water still flowed from the shower heads, mixing around the drain with dried and fresh blood.

“Captain Price, Two-Yankee Six reporting in. We’re meeting heavy resistance in the south wing, they’ve locked down our access point, over.”

“Roger Yankee Six. Regroup with Team Two and help them regain control of the base security, out.”

They moved through a locker room, filled with televisions that displayed bars and tone, an eerily ominous noise given where they were. The locker room spilled out into a red light-lit hallway, where an alarm blared in their ears as they advanced.

“Captain Price,” another American – not Morrison, no, his voice was smoother, more deathly calm, almost – said as their radios crackled. “We’re sending your team the abort codes you’ll need to destroy the missiles in flight. You have nine minutes before those missiles reach the Eastern Seaboard, over.”

“Copy that. Cheers for the assist, Reyes.”

“You can thank me after you stop those missiles, Price,” Reyes said, before abruptly cutting out.

Russian filled the air as they continued to move, advancing beyond a kitchen full of overturned tables and hastily-made barricades. Must have been a hell of a fight here when the Ultranationalists made their move. Soap turned the corner to spot a group of Russians making for cover, soon dead on the ground after he fired on them.

“Keep going!” Price shouted as they continued to engage targets.

The endless series of halls, alternating between well-lit and ominously red, proved confusing and disorienting. The only way Soap managed to keep his head straight was by Price ordering him and Liao on where to go, constantly updated on how much time they had left by Liao. A single, loud Russian voice broke over the loudspeaker now, speaking calmly and evenly.

“What is that?” Liao asked. “What’s he saying?!”

“They’ve started a bloody countdown!” Price shouted. “Zakhaev’s going to launch the remaining missiles! Hurry!”

Five minutes left. Soap, Price and Liao approached a heavy steel door, heralded by a spinning red light and black-and-yellow caution paint all around it.

“Captain Price, this is Gaz. We’ve taken control of base security. What’s your status, over?”

“Gaz, we’re in position,” Price said, taking cover near the door. “Open the outer door to launch control.”

“Roger, we’re on it.”

Soap ducked near Price, waiting for the door to start moving. No way they could brute-force their way through this.

“Alright, door’s coming online now,” Gaz called. A buzzer rang in Soap’s ears as hydraulic mechanisms began to work, very slowly opening the door. Liao peeked around the corner, curious. He soon shook his head, exasperated.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be shitting me,” he muttered, full of despair. “Four fucking minutes.”

“Gaz, can’t you make it open faster?” Price asked.

“Negative, sir,” Gaz replied, deadpan. Soap could barely even believe it. How old _was_ this place? “But you can try pulling if it’ll make you feel better.”

Price chuckled. “Cheeky bastard.”

Eventually, the doors opened enough to let them though. Soap needed no further encouragement, tossing a flashbang ahead of them to disorient any Russian defenders that might have gotten the idea to set up a killzone for them. The three surged in, easily dispatching the handful of Russians that had taken position on the other end of the door. No further contacts as they moved to the far wall of the control room.

“Team Three,” Price said, pausing outside the wall. “What’s your status, over?”

“We’re in position at the southeast side of the launch control room, standing by. Are you at the far wall, over?”

“Affirmative, preparing to breach,” Price said, turning to Liao. “Do it.”

Liao pulled out another bundle of explosives, sticking it to the wall and retreating with Price and Soap to a safe distance. “They better be ready,” he muttered. “Three minutes.”

Seconds later, the explosives went off, blowing a hole in the wall and allowing the joint Marine-SAS team to invade the launch control room, the surprise renovation throwing the defending Ultranationalists off-guard and allowing them to be taken down without trouble.

A massive line of computers ascended up like a staircase of technology, all facing a map of the world with targets lined up in Russian. Two giant red stars with what Soap assumed to be the slogan of the Russian strategic rocket forces adorned the wall on both sides of the map.

“What are the abort codes?” Soap shouted as he neared a console.

“I’ll relay them to you,” Price yelled back as Liao and the Marines set up to watch for enemy reinforcements. He never gave a shit about Cyrillic in Credenhill, and now he was paying the price. Nukes converging on 41 million people and he was here staring at distorted п symbols, a language as foreign as Martian, with zero times zero room for error. Soap brought back as much as he could remember, hoping he was right.

“Standby for confirmation,” Morrison said over the radio.

“Two minutes,” Liao informed them.

Waiting for someone, _anyone_ in Command to say something was driving Soap mad. How long did it take to bloody confirm this? Seemed pretty simple to him – were the missiles flying to Washington or not?

“Bravo Six, all warheads have been confirmed destroyed in flight. We got a ton of debris, but most of it’s landing in the ocean.”

“Yes!” Soap found himself shouting, pounding the top of the computer.

“Sir, check the security feed,” one of the Marines said, pulling up a live feed from outside the base. “It’s Zakhaev, he’s taking off!”

Almost immediately after, Gaz came through the radio as well. “Captain Price, this is Gaz. They came by in lorries. I’m thinking we can use them to get the hell out of here, vehicle depot’s not too far away from you!”

“Roger that, we’ll meet you there! Everyone follow me, let’s go!”

Price, Soap, Liao and the Marines began making their escape, largely backtracking the way that they had come in to get to the vehicle depot. There was no longer a time limit, but Soap reckoned the Russians wouldn’t let this happen lying down.

“All teams, recommend you exfil from the area _immediately,”_ Morrison said. “Large numbers of hostile forces are converging on your position. Get out of there _now!”_

A squad of Russians met them in between the launch room and the elevator up to the depot, easily taken care of by the Marines. The two teams stuffed themselves into an elevator that looked like it had been last maintained in 1986, with a horrible grinding and screeching to match as it lifted them up.

“This is Gaz, we’re takin’ some fire up here at the vehicle depot, where the hell are you guys?!”

“We’re coming up the lift,” Price replied. “Standby.”

“You know, sir,” Soap said, taking a moment to catch his breath. “I wouldn’t mind getting a shot at Zakhaev.”

“Yeah, well, get in line, mate.”

Soap heard the gunfire before he could even see what was going on. Chaos consumed the motor pool as Ultranationalist soldiers and Marines both tried to get onto lorries, sometimes quite literally fighting each other to get on.

“Get on!” Gaz shouted, standing in the back of one of the lorries and gesturing to them. In a blaze of gunfire, Griggs got in the driver’s seat as Gaz, Liao, Singh and Price hunkered in the back of the massive Russian lorry they had commandeered. Price banged on the roof as they settled in, a sign the Marine took to immediately punch it and send them careening out of the vehicle depot at high speed.

“All teams, be advised, primary exfil point is compromised,” Morrison informed them. “Proceed to secondary extraction point south of the bridge. Enemy presence… substantial.”

“We’re getting beers when we finish this,” Liao shouted, checking his ammo.

“Nice proper stout,” Price muttered.

“As long as it ain’t room temperature,” Liao said, shaking his head. “A beer ought to be ice cold.”

“A lager, maybe, or a glass of water like the Americans drink.”

“I’m going to have to teach _both_ of you when we get back to Overwatch HQ.”

Gaz scoffed, nodding. “Yeah, well, either way, we’re stopping at London first, and I’m buying.”

“At least the world didn’t end,” Singh muttered.

Soap found himself jostled as they drove across the abandoned dirt road towards the highway, disregarding practically every Russian traffic law on the books. Before he could even comprehend it, they were turning onto a major highway, filled with shocked civilians that couldn’t help but stare as a shootout started between them and their Ultranationalist pursuers.

“Enemy truck, six o’ clock!” Singh shouted.

Soap set up a stable platform – as best he could anyway, given the uneven road – to start shooting back, dodging fire from the Ultranationalists as they closed in on them.

“Baseplate, what’s the status on that bird?” Price asked, keeping in cover behind a convenient box.

“Bravo Six, the bird has been delayed,” Reyes said. When had he taken over the mission? “ETA fifteen minutes.”

“That’s not bloody good enough! We’ll be dead in ten!”

“Oh shit! RPG!” Liao yelled.

Soap swung his aim around, trying to find stability as he searched for the RPG. Second lorry, just on their right. It was trying to box them in, but an RPG to the wheel would certainly help them stop Soap and his team. He fired a long burst, just hoping at least _one_ bullet would find its mark. Thankfully, it did, and in his final acts the enemy RPGer sent the rocket sky-high as he lurched back onto the road, bouncing off someone’s car.

“Reloading!” Singh reported. “Cover us, we’re getting boxed in!”

Liao managed to get a good burst off to hit the driver of the second lorry, causing it to careen and slam into a wall right as they entered a tunnel. The enemy lorry began to turn end-over-end, rolling as it lost traction.

They exited the tunnel just in time for another lorry to slam into them from the side, unintentionally throwing an Ultranationalist into their bed. Liao wasted no time in extracting a knife from his belt and stabbing the Russian swiftly and cleanly. Singh, not willing to let the bed get bloody, tossing his body out the back.

“Hind! Fucking Hind!” Gaz shouted, pointing to the sky.

Soap looked up, spotting the ubiquitous Russian helicopter hovering just above them. Next to him, Singh began praying in Hindi as Liao fruitlessly sent rounds at the helicopter’s armored cockpit. Soap focused back on the lorry just next to them as Griggs began a battle of lane control with him. Most of the shooters on the other side had been dealt with when Soap’s lorry began to pull away. What was happening? Why were they pulling back?

The sight of a bus slamming full-speed into the Russian lorry answered that question. Within a second, they entered another tunnel, just in time for the Hind to fire off a rocket at their previous position, sending rocks and chunks of concrete down to the road.

“Does this thing have RPGs in it?!” Liao demanded, throwing broken lids off the crates surrounding him.

“Can’t worry about that now!” Price yelled. “Griggs! Get us away from that helicopter!”

“I’m fucking working on it!”

“Wait, I think we’re good,” Singh said. “It can’t get us in here, right?”

The whipping sound of the blades disproved that theory. Soap turned to his left, calling out the enemy helicopter that had appeared in the open-air curve of the tunnel they were now in. It raked them with its autocannon, trying but failing to score a hit. Each round it spat out detonated a car next to them. The Russians must have truly been desperate to kill them if they were willing to risk the lives of civilians.

Without warning, the Hind dusted off, despite having what looked like a clear shot.

“Where’d it go?” Singh asked. “Where the _fuck_ did it go?!”

“Do I look like some sort of psychic to you?!” Soap shot back.

Price smacked the two of them on the side, frowning. “Shut it, the both of you! We’re almost in the clear!”

Soap looked ahead, spotting the tunnel exit draw near to feed out to a massive bridge. They were close to their extraction point now.

“Oh shit!” Griggs yelled. “He’s about to take out the bridge!”

A series of rockets flew out from the Hind, consuming the bridge in a massive fireball that they couldn’t possibly brake in time for. “Stop the bloody lorry!” Gaz yelled. On instinct, Soap threw his hands in front of his face as the sound of crunching metal and breaking glass hit his ears. As they tumbled, he blacked out momentarily.

He woke up what must have been a few minutes later, a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. He was on asphalt, or at least whatever was left of it. Soap’s ears rang like no tomorrow, and he coughed as he propped himself up.

“The bridge isn’t going to hold,” Price yelled, but his voice was muffled, like Soap was wearing earmuffs or something. Disoriented, Soap blinked heavily, watching the chaos of a collapsing bridge unfold in front of him. _Move._ He commanded his feet to take him somewhere, _anywhere_ that wasn’t hanging in suspension nearly a mile above water. Soap couldn’t see Gaz, Griggs, Liao or Singh anywhere. What had happened to them?

Somewhat unsteadily, he headed towards Price, who had moved nearer to the far end of the bridge near an overturned tanker. Soap found a second wind, moving faster as the reality of his situation hit him. Metal creaked and groaned, sending chunks of rebar-filled concrete and asphalt down in jarring, arrested bursts. Just ahead, the Russians were back in force.

“Baseplate, this is Bravo Five,” Gaz coughed, crouching near a group of wrecked cars. “We are under heavy attack at the highway bridge at map grid 244352! Requesting helicopter support, over!”

“Working on it, Bravo Five,” Reyes said. “Loyalist forces in the area may be able to assist but we cannot confirm at this time. Baseplate out.”

Gaz pounded the concrete in front of him, groaning in frustration. “Useless wanker!”

“Gaz, give me a sitrep on those helicopters!” Price yelled.

“We’re on our bloody own, sir!”

All in front of him, Soap could only see Russians. They were practically swarming the area, firing wide and close to him. He could have sworn he saw Singh’s body just next to an overturned lorry, but that couldn’t have been right. The sound of bullets both flying past him and being fired from both his rifle and the rifles around him made the scene confusing overall. How long had they been here?

“Bravo Team, this is Sergeant Kamarov,” an all-too-familiar Russian voice said over the radio. “I understand you and your men could use some help.”

“It’s _bloody_ good to hear from you, mate!” Gaz shouted, practically over the moon with joy.

“Standby. We are almost there. ETA three minutes. Out.”

Liao stumbled next to Soap, collapsing on the pavement. “We’re not going to last three minutes,” he muttered. “Won’t last three seconds.”

“Oh shit!” Griggs yelled. “Tanker’s about to blow, move!”

The sentence didn’t register in Soap’s head until another explosion rocked the bridge. Soap’s world went back again as he slammed face-first into the concrete ahead, blinking slowly as vision began to come back. When he came to, Griggs was standing over him, dragging him away from a wrecked car. Soap watched helplessly as Griggs began firing a pistol at the Russians, the slide locking back after only a few rounds. Disappointed, Griggs tossed the pistol away and pulled up his machine gun, dropping Soap. In slow motion almost, Soap watched him start shooting, only to take a bullet to the neck that sent a spurt of blood out like a hose. Griggs collapsed, clearly not getting up.

Soap looked to his left, straining against the pain that was all over his body. Price looked unconscious next to the burnt-out car nearby. He saw a trail of blood – was that his own, or Price’s? - over there as well. Against all odds, Price weakly pushed himself up, flopping over in what Soap assumed to be immense pain. Soap tried to say something, call out, but he couldn’t find words coming out. He turned his attention back to where the Russians had been.

He was there.

Imran Zakhaev himself, the one-armed, chrome-domed bastard, standing like a bloody victorious gladiator with two bodyguards in the middle of all the chaos. In his hand he held a pistol. Liao and Gaz both lay on the ground, weak and trying to get up. Zakhaev put a single bullet in Gaz’s head, and one of Zakhaev’s bodyguards kicked Liao while he was down, no doubt taunting him in Russian as he fired a burst into Liao’s back.

Zakhaev began to approach Soap, cold, dead eyes locking with Soap’s own. Before he could get closer, a rocket from nowhere took down a Hind that was hovering just behind them. Soap blinked, confused as Zakhaev turned around, threw his arm wide as if to say “what the fuck?” and yelled at his subordinates to start firing.

Soap looked over to Price again. Wordlessly, and clutching his stomach, Price slid an M1911 over to him. Slowly, Soap’s vision began to clear, and though the pistol was heavy in his hands, he lifted it up. Zakhaev was still distracted. Good. He aimed the pistol at him, shaky from the pain and injuries he had suffered, and fired once. Zakhaev’s head exploded in a burst of blood, and before his bodyguards could react, Soap had shot them too. Soap exhaled deeply, ignoring the stabbing in his chest as he laid back and stared into the sky.

He had done it. Loyalist helicopters flew overhead, and it may have cost him his life, his team, everything he had known to care about, but at least a war hadn’t started between the US and Russia. At least Soap could rest easy know that. He heard Russian, but it was friendly this time, not shouted in anger. Kamarov was standing over him, strapping Soap to a stretcher.

“You are going to be alright, my friend,” he said as Soap began to be lifted up into a helicopter just above. His vision faded, blurry as he was loaded in. He glanced over to see a medic standing over Price’s body, slamming on his chest in an attempt to revive him. Soap closed his eyes again, hearing the Russian overwhelm the helicopter with the noise of the engines and rotor.

At least they had saved the world.


	6. Asleep in the Back

_August 9th, 2008_

_Credenhill, United Kingdom_

_14:55:38_

A lot had changed since that day on the bridge in 2006. For one, an unintended consequence of the Second Russian Civil War, still raging even after two years and the death of one of its top figures in Imran Zakhaev, was that a new terrorist group named Talon had arisen. It seemed almost out of nowhere. Talon had bases, assets, and agents nearly worldwide – hell, one of their assassins was Amélie Lacroix, wife to Gérard Lacroix, one of Overwatch’s most prominent agents and spearhead to anti-Talon operations.

In a way, the break had given him time to reflect. Take stock. He’d been danger close with gunships, fucking dogs, sinking cargo ships… all the abuse and damage and battering his body took, paving the way to popping Zakhaev made it worthwhile. At first, when he was on his way to India for treatment, he had deluded himself into thinking it was okay. Not anymore. He remembered seeing Zakhaev’s body next to Gaz’s, their blood mixing together as it pooled below them. Soap wished he could have gone down, thrown Zakhaev’s body off of Gaz’s, off that damned bridge.

The world had moved on since then. Everyone thought the nukes were a test, that the cargo ship “went missing” out at sea. Gaz’s family deserved to know. He had never been able to approach them, and how could he? Couldn’t even have a funeral. As far as the world knew, Gaz had never existed, had just left home one day and never came back. SAS would never acknowledge it. Nowadays, even the Second Russian Civil War was just a backburner, long-forgotten conflict that nobody cared about. Sure, he saw news reports about changes in the frontlines, but the news wasn’t shitting their pants over it anymore.

“Captain,” Commander Morrison said, sighing heavily. Right. Soap had forgotten that he was back here, in his bloody office, now a captain just like Price was. Meetings with Commander Morrison of Overwatch were only slightly less painful than crashing face-first into a collapsing bridge. “Are you still with us?”

Soap groaned, looking over at the other American, General Shepherd. Man had lost a lot – being in command of those 30,000 Yanks lost in Saudi Arabia to that nuke didn’t much make for a happy man. His eyes were cold, devoid of any sort of emotion as he stared at Soap, with a mustache that he didn’t think was quite regulation. Though, Soap supposed if you were a general, maybe regulations stopped applying to you. “Aye, I’m here,” Soap replied, lighting up a Villa Clara cigar, Price’s brand. He had good taste, it was nice and smooth.

“Good,” Shepherd said, nodding. “Would hate to lose your interest in something this big.”

“Right, about that, gentlemen,” Soap replied. “To what exactly do I owe the pleasure of a visit from Overwatch’s own Strike Commander and an American general?”

Shepherd slid over a dossier, which Soap opened to see an insane-looking, vicious man with what looked like a military ID picture. “Vladimir Makarov is the new field commander of all Ultranationalist forces. If you thought the father-son duo was bad, this guy’s seven times worse.”

“Hmm,” Soap said, reading over the rather impressive dossier of Makarov’s military and political activities. M. V. Frunze Military Academy graduate, immediate commission as a Captain in the 98th Guards Airborne Division in the Russian airborne troops up until the fall of the Berlin Wall, then transferred over to Spetsnaz and two tours in Chechnya. And to think all of that was _before_ joining the Ultranationalists.

“News isn’t reporting it, but the Ultranationalist party is splintered. One side’s trying to distance themselves from Zakhaev and Makarov, the other is openly aligned with Talon. Guess who Makarov’s playing with.”

“Talon,” Soap answered, tossing down the dossier. “So, what, you think we nail Makarov, we shatter that entire faction?”

“Something like that,” Morrison said, nodding. “Look, Captain, I won’t lie to you. Overwatch’s reputation is in tatters after that bridge incident.”

Soap scoffed, shaking his head. _“Incident._ That’s a hell of a thing to call something that cost me nearly my entire team.”

“Point is, General Shepherd here is building an international team. Operators from all over the world who are willing to join up and take the fight to Talon. You ever hear about Rainbow?”

Soap nodded. Team Rainbow was considered legendary among not just the SAS, but special forces around the world. He had heard about Rainbow all the way back in 2002, when the first rumblings of Talon and their goals cropped up. Back then, Talon was small-time, but big enough to seize control of three casino hotels and with enough firepower to annihilate any American SWAT team, prompting a response from Rainbow. He had never heard the full story until he met Thatcher, who regaled him with stories about working with a group of tier 1 operators from all across the world to bring Talon’s little casino party down.

They had been disbanded before the Second Russian Civil War started, for reasons Soap was unaware of. “Sure,” Soap said. “I’ve heard of them. Are they being reactivated?”

“Not quite,” Shepherd said. “Starting fresh. I want you and Price to lead this team, mold them into the sorts of killers and marauders that broke the back of the Ultranationalists in 2006.”

“What’s our aim here? Other than run around Russia a bit more.”

Morrison tapped on the dossier on Soap’s desk. “Find Makarov. Take down Talon. We’re giving you and Price two months to hand-pick the best of the best from around the world.”

“This is a lot to take in, gentlemen,” Soap said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be here every step of the way. I have lines to some operators who want a shot at Talon just as much as you do, Captain,” Shepherd said.

Soap nodded, standing up to shake each man’s hand. “Well, glad to be aboard, gentlemen. Let’s go hunt ourselves some terrorists, eh?”

With handshakes going all around and a promise that he wouldn’t regret this, the two officers left Soap’s office. He’d need another cigar for this, surely.

* * *

_September 13th, 2008_

_Credenhill, United Kingdom_

_17:55:04_

Soap sighed as he leaned back. Lot of Rangers came out, lot of them didn’t make it through. He and Price had been able to narrow the field some, slimming the field down to a mere handful instead of hundreds. Seemed like every special forces and special police unit wanted a hand in taking out Talon and Makarov, from the SAS, SEALs, Japanese special forces, French counter-terrorists… hell, even a few Poles had come out to try their hand. The only thing pausing it on Soap’s end was the knowledge that Morrison wanted two of his best on Kingfish, a sniper by the name of Ana Amari and somebody named Lena Oxton. It irritated Soap to no end that Morrison had imposed these two on him, but Morrison trusted them to assist in Kingfish, so that was that.

He had met Amari once. Egyptian military, excellent sniper to even rival himself and Price. Perfect setup, really, Soap and Price could focus more on executing the mission instead of landing headshots. Oxton was more of an unknown element – her dossier from Overwatch told him she was an RAF test pilot. Didn’t seem like the sort of suitable candidate for field ops. What sort of skills did she bring? Soap was curious, but not enough to call her up here from her cozy little airfield south of London.

Price entered his office, rapping lightly on the door even though both of them knew he didn’t need to. Soap stood up, smiling. “Price, good to see you again,” he said.

“Likewise. Been away for too long.” Price looked around, clearly impressed by Soap’s little office. “Doing well for yourself.”

“Aye, we could say that,” Soap said, smirking. “They wanted to give me _your_ office for a while.”

“Did they? Hmm. Nevermind that, then. How are the new recruits doing?”

Soap and Price both took seats as Soap turned his computer’s monitor towards Price, allowing him to see the little spreadsheet he had made. “Our little keeper, Ghost, is near top in everything. I like his chops, and if nothing else we’ve got Blackbeard to keep him in line.”

“I see. What’s the NJP for?”

Soap chuckled. “Got into a barfight with a handful of American Coast Guardsmen. He got some good licks in from what the report says.”

“My kind of man. Alright, next week, let’s bring everyone up to speed. Do we have satfeeds of the target area?”

Soap swapped tabs, bringing up a gallery of images he had saved that Commander Morrison and General Shepherd had sent him. “Target compound is just west of Cherkasy, across the river. Local Talon and Ultranationalist cell, at this range we really can’t tell the difference between the two.”

“And Makarov’s supposed to be here,” Price finished, studying the compound intensely. “Yeah, I can see it now. Comms building, small barracks, HQ for when Makarov wants to get fancy. Surprised there’s no armory.”

“Well, we’ll probably discover more fun tricks on the ground. The way I see it, Amari can provide sniper support from this ridge, while the rest of us infiltrate from this route.”

Price nodded. “Sounds solid. Can we get Sledge, Thatcher and Mute on this one?”

Soap shook his head. “Shepherd and Morrison vetoed it from the get-go. Small team, and Morrison thinks we’re already pushing it by getting Ghost and Blackbeard on-board.”

“Guess that’s the best we’ve got, then,” Price muttered, sighing heavily. “Alright. Let the others know they can go home. We don’t need to see anything more from them.”

* * *

_October 17th, 2008_

_14km west of Cherkasy, Ukraine_

_10:28:33_

Soap waved off the helicopter, turning to see his team waiting, checking their weapons and gear. Amari cradled an AWM in her hands, no doubt prepared to break off to find high ground to provide overwatch for them. Oxton, who asked to be called “Tracer” for the duration of the mission, kept adjusting her hold on the UMP .45 she had. _Should have given her more time on the range,_ Soap thought. Blackbeard was well-settled, and Ghost continually scanned the area, on guard for any wandering Talon operatives that might have spotted their ride in.

And Price, as he always expected, smoked a cigar without a care in the world.

“Alright,” Soap said as he approached the team. “Makarov’s compound is to the northeast, about a klick away.”

Price tossed away his cigar, clearing his throat. “Amari, there’s a good spot to snipe from on the right. Lot of hills. For the rest of you, we’re moving slow and carefully. Talon and Ukrainian ultranationalists are all over this area. Intel says some of them are Ukrainian military, so keep to rules of engagement – don’t fire unless fired upon. That clear?”

“Clear, sir,” came the enthusiastic reply from the team.

With the direction pointed out by Soap, they began to move out towards the compound. Amari split off early, wishing the “children” good luck in their approach. The open field they had dropped into soon changed to a somewhat peaceful Eastern European forest, idyllic if not for the threat of international terrorists abound. Soap continually scanned, not eager to get into a firefight with enemy contacts with his pants caught down. So far, so good.

“So, Makarov, huh?” Blackbeard said, his gravelly, almost rough voice cutting through the air even as he kept his voice low. “They told us he gave the nuke to that Saudi guy, killed thousands of Americans.”

“Wasn’t Makarov,” Price said. “Zakhaev was behind that deal. Keep scanning.”

“In position,” Amari reported over he radio. “No hostiles spotted.”

“Understood, Amari,” Price replied. “Let us know if you spot anything, over.”

Soap went back to focusing on their approach to Makarov’s safehouse, the sound of crunching leaves and the occasional dry wind scattering twigs and branches around the only thing to be heard. He’d been in too many situations like this before to believe it’d be this quiet for long. All it took was one wrong step, one missed contact, one lapse in focus for everything to go wrong.

“Vehicle approaching,” Amari said. “On the road to your left, looks like an armored vehicle.”

“Get down,” Price said quietly, diving to the floor. Soap followed suit before he was even conscious of doing it, already on the ground with his chin in the leaves. Blackbeard and Ghost were flat in record time as well, with Tracer a bit slow on the uptake. Sloppy. Sloppy could get them killed. Soap heard the vehicle passing, turning his head to steal a glance at it. Eight wheels. Some kind of cannon on top. Looked like a typical post-Soviet design.

“Ain’t never seen anything like that before,” Blackbeard commented quietly.

“Keep low,” Price reminded them.

Slowly, the sound of the eight massive wheels began to fade away. Amari reported all-clear, and they were on the move again. Soap didn’t think Talon – or Makarov’s men, come to think of it – would be brazen enough to operate armored vehicles out here, much less openly armed ones. Soap crested a hill with the team, with Makarov’s safehouse finally in sight.

“Makarov looks ready for war,” Ghost muttered. “How many do you reckon he’s got in there?”

“Baseplate,” Price said, speaking into his radio. “Where’s our air support? We’re in position, over.”

“Bravo Six, this is Baseplate,” a voice said. He remembered this from Russia. Gabriel Reyes. Right, he had forgotten he was on-hand for this mission. “Friendly AC-130 is hovering now, callsign Conjurer. We’re seeing upwards of seventy hostiles in the compound, over.”

“Damn, two platoons,” Blackbeard said.

“I see machine gunners in the watchtowers,” Amari reported. Just as she finished, the skies darkened. Heavy rain poured down, followed up by flashes of lightning and booming thunder. If they moved fast, Amari could kill the guards in the tower before they were even aware anything was amiss.

“Alright, here’s the plan,” Price said. “Ghost, Blackbeard, Tracer, go through the comms building. Soap and I will take the barracks. Amari, kill the gunners when you can with the thunder.”

“Understood,” Amari replied.

“Bravo Six, this is Conjurer, be advised, our infrared is good, but not that good. Viscon on target area is going down, over.”

“Guess we’ll have to go without air support for a while,” Soap muttered as he got up. Rain was already bouncing off his uniform and equipment, soaking him to the bone. Ghost, Tracer and Blackbeard looked to be in about the same position as they moved up to the base. Another flash of lightning, with thunder two seconds later. Just in time, Amari’s shot landed on an enemy machine gunner, and he disappeared from view.

“One hostile down,” she reported. “Shifting to the next.”

“Bloody glad she’s on our side,” Price muttered. “Ghost, you’re clear, keep moving.”

“Roger,” Ghost said. Soap glanced over to see him, Tracer and Blackbeard moving up. If all went well, they could get to the comms building without being seen. He looked back ahead – the barracks he and Price were about to infiltrate was in sight.

“Price, stop,” Amari said suddenly. The rain showered down on them, and both Price and Soap knelt on the ground, trying to remain low while in the open. Another flash of lightning, and then a shot. Soap didn’t need to hear Amari confirm the kill to know she had taken out an enemy that might have potentially seen them. “All clear. Keep going.”

“This is Ghost, we’ve secured the comms building. Nobody’s here.”

“Understood, Ghost. Hold and wait for further,” Price said, approaching a blue-colored steel door. Standard infiltration procedure. Price quietly opened the door, while Soap followed closely behind, checking every corner. Barracks was positively Russian in origin, with an open-air line of cots in a massive room. Shower and bathroom on the far end, some kind of office as well. Soap sort of figured Talon would have sprung for better accommodations, if the rumors of where their agents came from were true.

“Barracks clear,” Soap reported after checking the shower room.

Price sighed, casually looking over the main barracks again as he grabbed his radio. “Conjurer, how’s the IR looking? Any contacts?”

“Uh… negative, Bravo Six, but we’re still a little spotty up here, over.”

“Didn’t they say there were about seventy people here?” Tracer asked over the radio.

Price shook his head, keying his radio again. “Amari, do you see anything? Air support’s blind.”

“I’m seeing movement in the main building just ahead of your position, Price. Storm looks to be clearing up, unfortunately.”

Price nodded, readjusting his grip on his rifle and moved to leave. “Alright, regroup on me. We’re going into that HQ.”

Once outside, the rain began to dissipate as they linked up. Soap tried to look into the windows of the building just ahead, but each one was tinted heavily, making seeing inside impossible. What was Makarov hiding? Something wasn’t adding up here.

That soon revealed itself as someone began shouting in Italian. Gunners showed up on the rooftop in front of them, with what felt like a million more on the balcony. One of them lugged up a heavy machine gun, slamming it down and opening fire almost as soon as it was stable.

“Scatter!” Soap yelled, though he didn’t think anyone needed the order. The heavy machine gun boomed almost as loud as the thunder a few minutes ago had, sending bullets careening into the ground and wrecking cover alike.

“Amari!” Price shouted. “Enemy heavy machine gun! We need it taken out!”

Soap tried to make himself as small as possible, trying to figure out how he could get some fire on the Talon forces and avoid being shot to pieces by the HMG at the same time. So far, he wasn’t able to come up with anything. But, Amari’s silence soon overwhelmed his thoughts. She was usually on the ball about replying. What had happened?

Price shook his head, frowning. “Amari! Do you have a shot or not?!”

“Engaging enemy sniper!” she suddenly shouted. Sniper? Soap didn’t hear any sniper fire, but given how chaotic the scene already was, he could easily have missed it.

“We’re being torn up out here!” Blackbeard yelled. “Why can’t we just get our fucking airsup to blow this building the _hell_ up?!”

“Negative, negative,” Price yelled back, shaking his head. “Makarov could be inside! We need him alive!”

Soap shook his head. This pointless back and forth with a heavy machine gun out for blood wasn’t helping. Something had to change, and quick. May as well bloody use the grenade launcher he had. Soap whipped around the corner, angling his rifle to fire a grenade up onto the balcony. Looked like a direct hit – he saw a lot of pieces of metal and man fly off and away.

“Amari!” Price shouted. “What’s the status on that sniper?!”

No response still. The clouds had cleared up fully now, maybe Conjurer could help them figure out what was going on?

“Uh, Bravo Six, be advised, we have a visual on Bravo Six-Three’s position, uh… we don’t see any movement, over.”

“Push up!” Soap shouted. “We need to find Makarov!”

“Bravo Six, give me a sitrep,” Reyes asked. “What the hell’s going on down there?”

“Baseplate, be advised, heavy enemy presence, it’s a bloody ambush! No sign of Makarov!”

Soap glanced back for only a second, spotting Price still in cover. Ghost, Tracer and Blackbeard hadn’t been able to move with all this fire. How could they, with upwards of an entire platoon on top of them? Talon soldiers crawled all over the place, flooding out the building and flanking them. So many languages being spoken at once – how did any of them even communicate with each other?

“Where’s Amari? Over.”

“Unknown! Attempting to breach to find Makarov!”

“Negative, negative, do not breach. I repeat, do not breach. We have word from our informant that Makarov set up-”

A massive explosion consumed the headquarters, knocking Soap off his feet. He looked up to spot the headquarters building destroyed, with barely even a remnant left of it. Their gunship hadn’t done that. What happened?

“Baseplate, target building is bloody gone! No sign of Makarov, we’re pulling back!” Price shouted, helping Soap up as he passed by. Tracer was limping, helped along by Blackbeard and Ghost. Christ, Soap was really wishing they had Amari right about now. Where was she? As he glanced back, he saw the glint of a scope against the sunlight. There was that sniper, aiming at one of them. Soap dodged out of the way just in time.

“Bravo Six, this is Conjurer, we are engaging targets to your north on Shepherd’s orders, over.”

“Do what you have to,” Price said. “Keep moving, all of you!”

Four rounds flew down from the sky, marked with booming echoes from far away. The explosives wracked the ground just ahead of them, sending Talon operatives nearly every possible way.

“Shit!” Ghost yelled. “Why didn’t they warn us about danger close?!”

Blackbeard scoffed. “Since when does Shepherd care about danger close?”

To his horror, Soap watched a white streak fly out from behind the building. Anti-air missile. The AC-130’s flares either didn’t work, or had been deployed too late, and the missile slammed right into the back of it, causing an explosion.

“Oh shit! This is Conjurer, we’re going down!”

“Price, give me a sitrep, what the hell is happening down there?”

“We’ve lost air support, one wounded, one MIA! We need immediate evac, hot zone, I say again, hot zone!”

The team, battered and wounded as it was, moved as fast as they could out of the hornet’s nest of Talon agents. Soap and Price did their best to cover Ghost and Blackbeard, still carrying a wounded Tracer despite her insistence that she was fine. Retracing their steps out of the facility was proving to be far more difficult even without having Talon on their tails.

“Bravo Six, be advised, we have a friendly helicopter incoming. Get on it and get the hell out, over.”

Soap turned around to see the incoming helicopter already on the horizon. Thank Christ, then they could finally get out of here, extract themselves from hell. The gunfire mixed with the whirling helicopter blades as he ran to it. Ghost and Blackbeard were on fire, helping Lena in while Soap and Price made sure they were covered.

“Go, old man!” Soap shouted, hastily shoving a new magazine in.

“We’re going together, I’m not lifting your arse into another helo!”

Soap shook his head, smirking as he sent off another burst. That smirk turned to fear, however, when he watched an RPG fly towards them. Instead of hitting the helicopter like he expected, it landed almost directly in front. Instantly, he felt a hot, searing pain in his arm and shoulder. Shrapnel wounds. Never a good time.

“Shit!” Blackbeard yelled, jumping out of the helicopter to start pulling Soap inside.

“Jigsaw,” Reyes said, “your orders are to evac immediately.”

Before anyone could even react, much less move, the helicopter began to rise, up and away from Price.

“Stop!” Ghost yelled. “We still have a man down there!”

“Our orders are to leave _now,”_ the pilot repeated.

“We’re not leaving anyone behind!” Blackbeard shouted back.

“Get that bird in the air!” Price said over the radio.

Ghost gripped tightly to the front of the troop area, leaning in close to the pilot. “I don’t care what your orders are! Get back down there!”

“We stay, we’re _dead!”_

Soap managed to look over the edge of the open door to see Price shot in the shoulder, hitting the ground hard. Tough bastard he was, he pulled out his pistol and began shooting with that, even as Talon operatives surrounded him. Before long, Soap slipped into unconsciousness, the image of Price being beaten on by Talon the last thing in his head.


	7. No Russian

“I guess start from where you think it went wrong,” Reyes muttered, leaning back in his chair as if he hadn’t just lost two operatives on a mission just seven hours ago. How could he _do_ that? Did he have any empathy left in him?

Soap sighed, still groggy off the medication. He tried to move his hand to rub his face, but was stopped by the wealth of bandages and tubes on his arm. Right. Other hand for now. “You had the best view of all, didn’t you, sir? Why don’t you tell me?”

Reyes groaned, shaking his head. “Listen, I didn’t take shit from Price, and I won’t take it from you-”

“Price is _dead_ because we had faulty intel,” Soap snapped.

Within a second of the words escaping his lips, he saw Reyes tense up, the subtle sound of a pencil point breaking mixing with a certain sharp draw of breath. He glanced over to see Reyes had slammed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched tightly. Soap could tell Reyes was trying _very_ hard to keep calm right now. “Captain MacTavish,” he said slowly, simmering with anger. “Don’t you _dare_ forget I lost a friend too. Nobody knows what happened to Ana. So, do me a favor and just… tell me what you saw, okay?”

“Right,” Soap muttered, shaking his head. “Not much to tell. We approached the safehouse, used the cover of the storm to get in. Makarov’s men and Talon set up an ambush, were waiting for us. Don’t know how they ever caught on.”

“Well, that’s what we’re trying to figure out. What about when you split into teams? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“No. Ghost and Blackbeard are top operators. They wouldn’t let Tracer make a mistake.”

Reyes shrugged, arching an eyebrow. “First time for everything.”

He closed his eyes, sighing deeply as the memories of a truly fucked-up operation came back to him. What were they even doing? So much was unknown. Nobody knew Makarov’s men had armored vehicles. Nobody spotted the fact that there weren’t actual patrols at the safehouse. Hell, nobody even thought of the idea that they had anti-air missiles or a top-tier sniper to take out Amari.

“It doesn’t make sense. How did we get everything this wrong?”

“Wind back to… right when the ambush started,” Reyes said, ignoring him.

The ambush. More like a killing zone, if they hadn’t extracted in time and if the Talon gunners weren’t such terrible shots. If Amari hadn’t been distracted by that sniper… maybe Price would have gotten out. If they had been quicker on the ball, figured out earlier that something was up, maybe Amari would be alive. Out of anyone, though, Soap knew full-well the dangers of falling into “coulda-woulda-shoulda” thinking.

“You heard the comms. Amari was busy with an enemy sniper.”

“Not just _any_ enemy sniper. Widowmaker.”

Soap furrowed his brow. “Who the bloody hell’s Widowmaker?”

Reyes laughed, a wry smile on his face. “You might know her better as Amélie Lacroix.”

“Is that some sort of prank, Reyes?” He asked, staring back at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “She wasn’t a soldier, not like Gérard was.”

“Yeah. That’s the Amélie Lacroix we _knew._ Talon… I don’t know, they brainwashed her or something? Turned her into a killing machine.”

“Here I thought brainwashing was a joke made up by the North Koreans,” Soap muttered, shaking his head. “How’d they do it?”

“Do I look like I have an inside man at Talon to you?”

Soap shook his head, pursing his lips. “No. You look like a guy who’s pissed off he didn’t know this earlier.”

“Well, at least you’re spot on about that.” Reyes sighed deeply, tossing away the pencil he was using. “Listen, I’m not going to bullshit you, Soap. After Kingfish went to hell in a hacksaw, we lost track of Makarov.”

“Shepherd must be right furious,” Soap muttered.

“Like you wouldn’t believe. I have to pull every operator I know to scour the fucking underworld for this asshole, all because we walked into an ambush practically wrapped up for them. It’s gonna take some time, so… yeah.” Reyes shook his head, standing up to leave Soap’s hospital room. “Do me a favor. When we find this motherfucker? Shoot him in the eyes for me.”

“Will do, sir,” Soap said, nodding. “One thing before you go.”

Reyes turned, arching an eyebrow to silently ask what Soap waned.

“Why’s Shepherd so insistent on finding Makarov?”

The other man paused, staring at a suddenly interesting piece of the door frame, probably as a way to hide his apprehension about answering this question. He was silent for several minutes, his mouth about to move in preparation to say something, until he thought better of it all and just shrugged. “You want my bet? He can’t kill Zakhaev, so he’s going after the next best thing. Hell, if I lost thirty thousand men, I’d be just as pissed off.”

* * *

_May 17th, 2009_

_Credenhill, United Kingdom_

_11:46:09_

Task Force 141 had grown quite well in the past several months. After his recovery, Soap could focus more on training, not just himself but the entire task force as well, and it was already paying dividends. With Overwatch’s help, they were able to track down some of Talon’s bases of operations and arrest or kill anyone who posed a threat. Unfortunately, it had all been low-level, the sort of people who never had an inkling of who was above them or what they were really getting into. Not one bit of it was helpful to finding Makarov.

By Soap’s count, 141 had grown to include members of the US Navy SEALs, Canadian JTF2, GIGN, and even a fellow from Germany’s GSG9. Training regimens were necessarily harsh – days, even weeks-long field exercises, killhouse runs of structures both real and imagines, intense, demanding physicals to keep everyone in tip-top fighting condition. Not to mention the arduous task of analyzing and studying every piece of intel about Makarov that crossed their desks. At this point, Soap was fairly sure he knew more about Makarov than the man himself.

The good news was, of course, they had managed to track practically everything Makarov had been up to. He was planning something, something big. What that something was remained up for debate. Thatcher theorized that he intended to spark a third war in Chechnya. Rook and Doc postulated his next target was in Russia. The Canadians and Americans argued daily whether the arms purchases Makarov made were for his own men, or to supply a new wing of the Ultranationalists across the pond. The only thing anyone agreed on was that Makarov had been buying up a lot of guns and ammo, which never meant anything good.

If only they could find him.

Soap had built up a massive wall by now, tracking everything he knew about Makarov. Red strings formed lines between known connections in Russia and abroad, mostly in Eastern Europe and Central Asia. He had notes scrawled on any surface, sometimes over clandestine photos taken of Makarov and known allies, sometimes over documents gathered from all possible corners. Like Rome, all roads led back to Makarov at one point.

It dawned on Soap last month that Makarov didn’t subscribe to Talon’s ideology. Nothing about it matched, not with the man only known as Doomfist at Talon’s head propagating strengthening humanity through conflict. No, Makarov was less concerned with strengthening humanity, and more with ensuring Russia would be top dog in the world. That had to connect to what his next planned attack was.

Makarov would never make a move without having a reason, a higher purpose behind it. This was not a man who randomly attacked people. Soap stared at his wall, trying to connect the dots, hoping that he could glean something by looking at the same pictures and documents he had been seeing for months.

“Gonna go crazy looking at all those photos, lad,” a familiar voice said. Seamus “Sledge” Cowden. One of the best men in the SAS when it came to the brutally impossible task of “swinging a giant hammer.”

“You’ve heard what Shepherd wants. We’ve got to find Makarov.”

Sledge nodded, folding his arms as he began to look over Soap’s work. “We’ll get him. Men like Makarov, they’re sloppy. You know how it goes.”

“Sloppy gets you killed,” Soap recited. It was a phrase Price had instilled in the both of them for God-knows how long. Hell, he figured even an old hand like Thatcher had it battered into him. “I know. Thought by now we’d have gotten something.”

“Still bet good money he’s doing something near Kiev,” Sledge said, studying the board almost as hard as Soap was.

“Doesn’t make sense,” Soap replied. “Why operate in Ukraine?”

Sledge shrugged, not taking his gaze off the picture of Makarov that had been circled with a thick red pen. “You really think a nutjob like Makarov is going to start making sense to us?”

“No,” Soap said, scoffing. “I just want to find the bastard.”

* * *

_August 12th, 2010_

_Credenhill, United Kingdom_

_14:52:38_

Well, they were right about one thing. Makarov was planning something big after all.

But none of them had predicted that it would have been a massacre on Russian soil. Not even the most dismal of outlooks in the Task Force thought Makarov would pull off something like this. Soap couldn’t even believe the numbers he saw – 381 civilians, airport security officers, and internal troops that responded listed as casualties.

“This is priority number one, people,” Shepherd announced as he stood at the front of the room, anger in his face and pure venom in his tone. “Makarov was one move ahead, left hundreds of bodies at the feet of an American.”

Soap remembered well their “inside man” op. Shepherd had plucked someone out from practically nowhere to go undercover, get in Makarov’s inner circle. Allen had given them a lot, but not one bit of it was where Makarov was. Man moved around so often, it was impossible to get a fix before he was on the move again. And now… well, now Allen was dead at Zakhaev International Airport, the blood of what felt like all of Russia on his hands.

“We’re the only ones who know it’s Makarov’s op,” Soap concluded, folding his arms. “We need proof.”

Shepherd nodded. “Follow the shells. I’m reaching out to friendly contacts in Russia, seeing if they can help us out a little. Not everyone is so keen that the Ultranationalists are in charge.”

“You think that’ll lead us to Makarov?” Sledge asked, clearly skeptical.

Before Shepherd could answer, the door burst open. All eyes turned to Gabriel Reyes, clutching a report and looking _extremely_ pissed off as he pointed to Soap. “You. I need you to help Overwatch out.”

“Reyes, you might be in command of Blackwatch, but that doesn’t mean-”

“If you don’t want the Russians to get their hands on the names of every single person assigned to this task force, then I suggest you shut up and let me take Soap,” Reyes shot back. “…sir.”

Soap looked over at Shepherd. He looked about as pissed off as Reyes must have been, narrowing his eyes and frowning harshly. “Fine then,” he said. “Do what you need to. Rest of you, find Makarov. I don’t care what it takes.”

Reyes jerked his head for Soap to follow him, and he did so out of the briefing room and back to Soap’s own office. Once inside, Reyes tossed a dossier onto the desk, some of the contents already spilling out. Soap picked up the remains, flipping through it to see some Russian airbase uncomfortably close to the Chinese border inside.

“So, what’s all this about?” Soap asked as he sat down.

“Overwatch maintains a global satellite array, helps to make sure things aren’t going wrong. One of them failed, and right now the black box from it is being held in that facility. Russians are working to decrypt it now, and I don’t have to tell you twice what happens if they find out what’s in it.”

“I’m confused. You’re worried about them finding us?”

“Russians are already itching for a war. If they find something like a task force for finding Makarov? Wouldn’t be hard for Vorshevsky to turn that into a propaganda win for him.”

Soap nodded. “Alright. I’ll start briefing Sledge and-”

“No,” Reyes said, shaking his head. “You’re not bringing anyone else in on this one. I need you to go with one of my guys.”

“What?” he asked, furrowing his brow. “You want me to work with an unknown?”

“Not exactly. Genji’s one of my best for infiltration, and you’ll _need_ to get in quietly if you don’t want an entire Russian base on your ass.”

Soap sighed. _Great, another FNG._ Maybe this one wouldn’t be terrible. Then again, if Reyes trusted him, maybe it would be alright. “Fine. When do I meet him?”

“Right now,” a Japanese-accented voice said. Soap whipped around, finding himself face-to-face with a man that looked half-human. Cold, soulless eyes stared at him, a metal arm replacing his right hand, and legs he could tell weren’t human. How much of him was man, and how much was machine?

“Bloody hell, give me some warning next time, yeah?”

“You and Genji are going to Kazakhstan. Get that black box, and for the love of god, don’t start another international crisis? We can only have one of those every few years,” Reyes said, folding his arms. “When you get back, report directly to me, understood?”

“Sir, all due respect, Shepherd-”

“Let _me_ handle Shepherd,” Reyes said. “Go get that black box.”

* * *

_August 13th, 2010_

_Tian Shan Mountain Range, Kazakhstan_

_07:35:51_

The cold did not bother him as much as it used to. If nothing else, he could thank the replacement cybernetic limbs for that. It must have been at least below 20 degrees, if not colder. Of course, smoking like the Captain did usually warmed a soul up. But not Genji. Genji only found anger warming himself as of late. An anger that he believed was righteous, the sort of fury only a scorned, broken man could hold in his heart.

_Man._ What a weak word. How foolish he had been to delude himself into believing that anyone who had half his limbs replaced, vital organs replaced by machinery, could still be called a man. No, he was something greater. Something better. Genji was the future.

“Break’s over, Genji,” Captain MacTavish said, tossing his cigar away. “Let’s go.”

Genji silently followed as Captain MacTavish turned to head to a spot along the cliff that looked viable for climbing. He took out his pickaxes, asking Genji to stay there and spot him as he tested the ice.

“Ice is good,” Captain MacTavish said. “Follow me.”

Genji needed no further orders. He pulled out a pair of icepicks of his own, following a similar path to the one the good Captain was blazing just ahead of him. As he glanced up, he watched a Russian jet zoom overhead, sending down chunks of ice upon them and nearly knocking Captain MacTavish off. He regained his footing quickly though, continuing his ascent. _Foolish._ One wrong move, and Genji would have had to finish this mission himself. Eventually, they scaled the cliff, not much worse for wear. A small gap was similarly no issue for them, and so they followed the storm up to the outer rim of the base’s security.

The first hint of security were two Russian soldiers peacefully walking. They were totally unaware that Genji and Captain MacTavish were here, a sure advantage. Genji prepared a shuriken, waiting for the right moment. The Russians were not wearing helmets, only soft cloth balaclavas that he knew his shuriken could pierce through.

“These muppets have no idea we’re here,” Captain MacTavish said quietly. “You take the one of the left.”

Captain MacTavish counted down to three, somehow timing it with a plane landing on the runway. He fired once, and Genji released the shuriken to its target, with both equally effective at killing their foe. The two Russians fell forward into the snow as he and Captain MacTavish advanced.

The storm began to pick up as they approached. Genji could see flags waving in the wind and the outlines of communications towers and antennas against the blanket of the snowstorm, their white and blue lights flashing in and out. A barracks building was just ahead, but beyond that? Genji couldn’t see, even with his enhancements.

“Same plan,” Captain MacTavish said, bringing Genji’s attention to another pair of Russians. Another countdown, and once more Genji took a life. Captain MacTavish looked around before settling on the ridge. “Let’s split up. I’ll use the thermal scope to provide overwatch from this ridge. Use the cover of the storm to enter the base.”

“Understood,” Genji said, his first words since arriving in the area. No need for words when action would do.

He dropped down from the ridge, landing softly on the snow below him. Genji moved silently, but swiftly, among haphazard olive green tents, the occasional half-moon hut, and roving trucks that brought patrols. Not a soul had seen him so far, and he intended to keep it that way to his approach.

“Plant your C4 at the fueling station,” Captain MacTavish said. “We may need to go to Plan B if things go south.”

Genji silently nodded, knowing the Captain couldn’t see him from where he was. He didn’t believe such a plan of action was necessary, but he did his duty and placed the explosive in a compromising position before heading to the hangar. It was the only place they could track it to, and it did no good to roam the base seeking what wasn’t there.

“Race you there,” Captain MacTavish said. Genji shook his head as he moved between parked planes for cover, constantly on the lookout for hostile contacts. Why did Mr. Reyes shackle him with such a foolish person? Eventually, he crossed the runway, dropping down behind the hangar that had icicles on every conceivable surface. Captain MacTavish was already there, despite all odds.

“Took the scenic route, eh?” he said.

“I did my job, Captain,” Genji shot back, narrowing his eyes. The Captain didn’t seem to be concerned with this. Together, they entered the hangar, where corrugated steel walls were the only thing to see in any conceivable direction.

Captain MacTavish entered first, immediately rushing forward into a series of lockers. Genji spotted a Russian soldier at the end of them, who was immediately slammed into said lockers by the Captain. To him, it sounded like the cascading noise echoed through the entire mountain range. Did Captain MacTavish not think before he acted? Genji began to suspect many Westerners thought this way. He watched from the sidelines as the Captain wrestled the Russian to the floor, stabbing him in the neck with his knife. If it had been Genji, such a ruckus would not have been made, and he rolled his eyes as he passed by. The hangar itself was empty, save for what looked like a jet engine and a series of tools and toolboxes scattered about.

“Go upstairs and look for the black box,” Captain MacTavish ordered. Genji sighed, irritated that the Captain felt he needed to hand down orders for him. In spite of the Captain’s slight, he went upstairs and searched what looked like some kind of office room, replete with electronic equipment and stacks of paper. The black box was nestled securely on a desk in between such stacks, and Genji swiftly grabbed it and placed it securely in his rucksack.

Just as he turned to leave, the sound of a massive metal door opening tipped him off that something was wrong. He kept low, tracing his path back to the hangar itself.

“Genji, I’ve been compromised,” Captain MacTavish said over his radio. _The fool._ He could jeopardize this entire mission. “Keep a low profile and hold your fire.”

Genji sneaked his way back into the hangar, hiding and observing from behind a set of boxes. Out at the front of the hangar, he saw no less than two full squads of Russian soldiers, with light vehicles to back them up.

“This is Major Petrov!” a voice shouted over a loudspeaker. “Come out with your hands up!”

“Go to Plan B.”

Idiot. If he hadn’t have been caught, they could have escaped quietly. Genji shook his head and he took out the C4 detonator, destroying the fueling depot in a massive ball of fire, distracting the Russians. Within seconds, he had scaled the railing separating him and Captain MacTavish, meeting up with him and engaging the Russians with a PM-9 submachine gun.

“Do you not have enough excitement in your life, Captain?” Genji asked as he took cover.

“Shut it! We’ll use the MiGs for cover and cross the tarmac to the southeast!”

Genji followed Captain MacTavish in his absurdly stupid plan, even as chaos consumed the airbase. Nobody seemed to understand that only they had infiltrated, and that despite the explosions from connected planes and secondary detonations, there was no need for the panic the Russians had been overwhelmed by. They bounded, one after the other, as they crossed the runway and traded fire with the Russians. Someone had left a snowmobile for them. How convenient.

“Get on!” Captain MacTavish shouted, using his icepick to kill a passing Russian on a snowmobile of his own. “Kilo Six-One, the primary exfil point is compromised! We’re en route to the backup LZ using enemy transport, over!”

“Bravo Six, this is Kilo Six-One, roger that, out.”

The feel of harsh, cold wind against his face was the first thing Genji remembered feeling all day, apart from general contempt towards Captain MacTavish for his actions. He deftly moved in between trees and avoided Russians on snowmobiles, escaping from their grasp even as they tried hard to stop them. Eventually, they reached their rendezvous point, no worse for wear and with the black box in hand as they took off, having successfully shaken their Russian pursuers.

Genji would have to have a long talk with Mr. Reyes when he got home.


	8. The Hornet's Nest

_September 7th, 2010_

_Rio de Janiero, Brazil_

_15:08:18_

Follow the shell. That’s what Shepherd had drilled into everyone’s heads. Hell, Jesse McCree wasn’t even part of 141 and he knew that was the gameplan. Really, the only reason he was here with 141 in Brazil was because Reyes had basically shoved him onto the team, insistent that he be taken along. Didn’t make much sense to him, really. Not like he spoke Portuguese. Lot of these guys were spec-ops shitbirds, and that wasn’t him. Really, all Jesse cared about was knowing where to point the gun.

“Oi, McCree,” Soap said, tapping him from the backseat. “Look alive. We’ve got Rojas’s assistant in sight.”

Jesse looked up, cocking back the hammer on his Colt Anaconda. They had been tracking this guy – who he was beyond “Rojas’s assistant” Jesse had already forgotten – in an attempt to find some arms dealer that had given Makarov the guns and ammo needed to pull off the airport massacre. Three men hopped out of the van they had been trailing, none of which were Rojas’s assistant. No, wait, there he was. Bald guy, cargo shorts, the kind of look in his eye that told McCree this dude was bad news.

“Got a positive ID,” Soap said. “Whoever these guys are, they’re not happy to see him.”

One of the men held a gun to the assistant’s chest. What the hell was going on here? As they approached, the assistant – fuck it, he’s the clown now – grabbed the gun and shot the three militiamen, before turning the gun on the car McCree, Soap and their driver, some Australian dude, were in.

“Get down!” Soap shouted.

The horn blared as the driver fell face-forward onto it, dead as his blood covered the dashboard. Before McCree could even react, Soap was out of the car and encouraging McCree to keep up.

“Ghost, the driver’s dead, we’re on foot!” Soap reported as they ran down the street. “Meet us at Hotel Rio and cut him off if you can!”

Gunshots echoed as they followed, with packs of screaming, panicked civilians along the way. What did this clown think he was _doing?_ McCree shoved random civilians out of the way, trying to match pace with this fucking idiot that was on a rampage in the middle of Rio. He barely heard Ghost reporting something as they ran, meeting up at a street corner to continue the chase.

“He went that way!” Ghost shouted, pointing to an alley.

“Keep going! Non-lethal takedowns only!” Soap yelled as they followed. “We need him alive!”

“No guarantees!” McCree yelled back, taking the lead down the abandoned alley. There he was. McCree stopped, watching the clown run for his life as he took aim. Let’s go for the leg. He fired one shot, watching the clown hit the ground hard.

“Nice shot, cowboy,” Soap said as he moved past him. The team closed in on Rojas’s assistant, grabbed him and dragging the wounded man, who screamed his head off the entire way, to a nearby truck. McCree helped tie him down into a chair, despite his thrashing. How the fuck did he manage to do this with a gimp leg?

“Alright, let’s get this set up right,” Soap muttered. Ghost dragged over a car battery and a pair of jumper cables, tapping them together. Looked like this fella was in for a fun time.

“Y’all want me to stick around?” McCree asked. “I know a thing or two about beating info out of people.”

“No,” Soap said. “Go with Sledge and Rook to the favela, check for any signs of Rojas. This guy was headed there, may be helpful to check it out.”

McCree nodded, falling in behind the two big guys. Made him wonder what some French guy was doing here, but hey, this wasn’t his task force. All Reyes said to do was follow them along, and make sure they didn’t do anything stupid. How hard could that be?

“Remember,” Sledge said as they moved into the favela, “there’s civilians around here. Watch your fire, and I do mean you, McCree.”

“Hey, I’ve got a deadeye, don’t you know?”

Ignoring him, Sledge shook his head as he looked out to the favela. Almost immediately, they came under fire from men wearing what looked like a haphazard mess of soccer jerseys, chestrigs, and wielding AK-47s without regard as civilians scattered. “Fuck!” Sledge shouted. “Soap, be advised, we’ve engaged enemy militia at the lower village!”

The three moved forward, trading fire with the militia. It seemed like they were all over, jumping across rooftops and throwing open windows to fire at them. McCree could barely keep up, tossing flashbangs left and right in a bid to keep them from taking easy shots. At this point, he wasn’t even sure how they could figure where Rojas was, if he had ever been here at all.

“Sledge, give me a sitrep, over,” Soap said over the radio. What sort of sitrep did he need?

“Lots of militia, but not sign of Rojas!” Sledge reported.

“Keep searching, let me know if you see him, out.”

_What?_ That was the best they had? Jesus, not even Reyes pulled bullshit like this. He, Sledge and Rook kept moving methodically through the favela, passing the shantytown and heading up a series of concrete stairs flanked by tall, dilapidated apartment buildings.

“Sledge, we’ve got Rojas’s position! He’s headed west along the upper levels of the favela.”

“Understood,” Sledge replied. “Heading there now.”

“We’ll keep him from doubling back on our side,” Soap further informed them. “Keep going and cut him off up top! No time for backup, you’ll have to do this on your own, good luck!”

The three picked up the pace as they moved through what looked like a basketball court, up a series of impossibly long staircases, and generally just through and around buildings. The entire favela felt like a maze, made even worse by the fact that they were constantly under fire the entire time. McCree constantly kept firing and reloading his revolver, cursing his luck that he hadn’t brought enough ammo for this mission.

“Go left!” Rook shouted, pointing to an alley near McCree. They must have been near the top now.

“He’s gonna get away!” Ghost yelled.

McCree ran down the alley, spotting Rojas running along a third-floor balcony. Where did he think he was going?

“No he’s not,” Soap said, crashing through a window and tackling Rojas. The pair fell off the balcony, hitting a parked car at the bottom. Soap recovered immediately, holding a pistol to Rojas’s head as McCree, Ghost, Sledge and Rook closed in. “Frontrunner, this is Bravo Six, we’ve got the package. I repeat, we’ve got the package.”

“Command, ready for dustoff,” Ghost said, speaking to another channel. “Send the chopper, coordinates to follow.”

Sledge and McCree dragged Rojas off the car, heading even further to the top of the favela. Behind him, he heard Soap groan, no doubt stretching after tackling a guy onto a fucking car.

“Are you alright, sir?” Rook said. “If we had Gustave here-”

“Aye, I’m fine,” Soap said. “Nothing I can’t walk off.”

* * *

They had strung Rojas up to the side of a building, and proceeded to beaten him and tortured the man for every piece of information he had. Soap didn’t care about his arms deals with half the world, the underground connections he had, or even the direct line to Talon. All he wanted was Makarov, and though Rojas couldn’t supply them with that, he did tell them there was one thing Makarov hated more than Americans.

A man in a gulag, known only as Prisoner 627. McCree figured it was less than helpful, but hey, Soap seemed happy with it. And so, they left Rojas to his fate in the streets, tied up and without a hope. If this con stuck in a gulag was their shot at finding Makarov, may as well hang him from a tree. Of course, the new problem they had emerged soon enough. The militia was closing in, and fast. Time to fight to the LZ.

“We’re at the top of the favela surrounded by militia!” Soap reported. “Bring the helicopter to the market, do you copy?”

“Solid copy, Bravo Six, bringing helo to the market, out.”

They advanced up a small hill, engaging with targets that appeared from practically nowhere. The militia was practically surrounding them, swarming from nearly every crevice to appear on the rooftops and streets. Someone drove up a shitty Toyota with a hastily mounted .50 cal on top, quickly wrecked by Soap and his grenade launcher.

The chaos was overwhelming, and not just because Jesse had virtually no idea where to shoot. It seemed like every time he took out one militiaman, two more were lining up to take his place. Calls on where enemies were coming from became lost in the madness – shooters on the right, left, behind refrigerators, on rooftops, near shacks, above, below, it just never ended. Despite the hardships, they ran through the withering fire, and when McCree ran out of ammo, he started picking up dropped AK-47s and FALs, tossing them when they ran dry.

Broken concrete staircases, abandoned parking lots, forgotten side streets, junk-filled roads and inconsequential playgrounds became their battlefield as they surged through, trying to shove their way to the market. Their advance path was blocked by a burning truck, never a good sign as the yelling of the militia grew louder. If McCree could go without hearing Portuguese again in his life, it wouldn’t be soon enough.

“Be prepared for immediate dustoff!” Ghost said. “We’ll be there in 20!”

“Eh, that might not be enough,” their transport replied. “I see enemy militia closing in on the market, over.”

McCree led the charge through a busted-up building, watching the militia swarm what looked like a makeshift soccer field. Smoke trails from RPGs filled the air alongside bullets. Dammit, they had let themselves be walked right into an ambush.

“Bravo Six, be advised, we are _not_ gonna make this landing,” the pilot reported, his voice struggling to remain calm.

“Dust off then!” Soap yelled. “Meet at the secondary LZ!”

“Understood, we’ll meet you there, Bravo Six. Good luck.”

McCree followed them up to the rooftops, heading to the so-called “Secondary LZ.” Looked more like just five minutes away from where they just were, but hey, McCree didn’t judge. He just wanted out of there.

“Under a hell of a lot of fire here!” McCree yelled as he traded shots with enemy militiamen. Each corrugated rooftop they stomped across felt like they’d break out from under him with each step.

“Hot damn,” the pilot muttered. “From up here, Bravo Six? Looks like the whole damn favela is trying to kill you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know!” Soap shouted. “Just be ready to pick us up!”

McCree glanced down, spotting an issue. “We’re running out of rooftop!”

“We can make it!” Soap, Sledge, Rook and Ghost each made an excellent jump, while McCree, somehow having fallen behind, leaped like his life depended on it.

Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t good enough. He hit the side of the neighboring roof hard, knocking the wind out of him, and he watched helplessly as he slipped off. Soap tried to grab him, but was just out of reach as he fell to the ground. He tumbled head over heels, watching his hat fly off as he crashed into a pile of junk. Groaning, he got up, spotting shadows moving towards him lit up by an orange fire that blazed elsewhere.

“McCree!” Sledge yelled. “We can see them from the chopper! They’re coming for you, dozens of them!”

_Oh fuck._ McCree scrambled to his feet, trying to find his bearings. Gun was gone. No time to get his hat back. Way too many to try and grab a gun to fight. He had to run. Kitchen in front, open door, perfect opportunity. Bullets shot past him as he tried to escape, moving through people’s houses on a desperate bid to reach the rooftops again. How had they found him so fast? He broke through to the rooftops, the harsh sunlight nearly blinding him.

“McCree!” Soap said. “We can see you from up here! Meet us south of your position!”

South. Okay. Yeah, because of course he just knew innately where that was. Thanks for that, Soap.

“We’re running on bingo fuel here,” the helicopter pilot reported. “We’re dusting off in 30, with or without him.”

McCree shook his head, muttering various obscenities under his breath as he ran past satellite dishes and broken pieces of chain-link fence. Just his luck. He jumped down, sliding across rooftops like it was nothing, crashing through a window to land in a living room. Gunner. He punched him as he ran past without even skipping a beat. The helicopter was right in front of him now, with Soap holding his hand out to catch him. “Jump for it!”

He leaped again, grabbing hold onto a conveniently placed rope ladder and clinging on for dear life as they flew away.

“We’ve got him! Get us out of here!”

“You don’t need to tell us twice.”

McCree took several long, heavy breaths, before climbing back up to the helicopter itself. Soap helped him inside, and he collapsed on the floor. He was finally safe. Fuck this special ops bullshit. Blackwatch never got him into anything this bad. 

“Y’all owe me a hell of a drink when we get back to friendly land,” McCree muttered. 

“Aye, I’ll get you a nice pint, yeah? On me,” Soap said, laughing. 

McCree lazily waved his hand, too tired to argue back. Not worth it right now. All that really mattered was he was safe, and he could go the hell home now. 

Though, he’d have to get Reyes to get him a new gun and a new hat. 

* * *

_February 11th, 2011_

_40 kilometers east of Petropavlovsk, Russia_

_07:42:56_

Julien “Rook” Nizan tugged against his armor, ensuring it was snug as they flew towards the gulag. Even now, he wasn’t sure how Overwatch had spun the assault on this place. How could they possibly justify attacking a place on Russian soil under the guise of defeating Talon? By his guess, not a single Russian even liked Overwatch, much less wanted them to intervene in their own backyard. But, regardless, he wasn’t here to wonder about politics. He was here to protect his team, which had now shoved out familiar faces in Sledge, Thatcher and old friend Doc to include what felt like all of Blackwatch.

“Thirty seconds,” Soap said, right as two F-18s flew into view, flying incredibly low.

“Hornet Two-One, this is Jester One-One, flight of two F-18s, four HARMs in the section. Standby for SEAD, over.”

“Solid copy, Jester, go get them.”

“Good tone, good tone. Fox Three, Fox Three.”

Two missiles shot out from the planes, screaming for the cliff’s edge of the gulag’s outer perimeter and flashing in a brilliant explosion. That took of any potential anti-air sites that Talon – or the Russians – might have been using.

“Splash, splash. Hornet Two-One, you’re clear all the way, good luck, out.”

Their helicopter flew ever closer to the gulag itself, and from where he was, Rook could see the Russians moving along the top of the gulag’s massive stone walls, with a friendly helicopter strafing them with its guns. The Americans had come all-out for this, it seemed, as their planes constantly flew across the airspace and dropped bombs on targets of opportunity. Looked like a massacre to Rook. One of the fighters flew way too close, rocking their little helicopter as Rook gripped on for dear life.

“Hang on,” their pilot muttered.

“Shepherd! That was too close! Get those fighters to cease immediately!”

“I’ll try to buy you some time,” Shepherd said unhelpfully. “One man in a gulag doesn’t mean much to the Navy right now.”

“And here I thought the Americans were the _good_ allies,” O’Deorain said.

“Moira, cut the chatter,” Gabriel Reyes replied.

Rook shook his head as their helicopter descended, bringing them right into the middle of the gulag’s prison yard. Fire met them almost immediately. Rook brought up his FAMAS, engaging with targets as they appeared. Lot of hostiles on a balcony – he fitted a rifle grenade over the barrel and switched to single-shot firing, lobbing the grenade over their cover to displace them. It worked beautifully, eliminating one hardened position.

They surged their way through two different gates, guarded by Russians clad in all-white gear for the snowy area. The next step was entering the gulag itself through an ominously-lit entrance, enshrouded in red and what looked like rusting iron bars around the doors. The concrete divider between the two staircases looked like it had been broken years ago, but how and why Rook didn’t care much to dive into.

“This is it,” MacTavish said as they entered. “We go in, grab Prisoner 627, and get out!”

The sound of pissed-off Russian filled the air as they turned the corner. Genji and McCree rushed forward, engaging with swords and bullets alike. Rook wondered how Genji wasn’t already a dead man, the way he charged into battle without regard for his life.

“There’s the control room ahead!” Ghost shouted. “I can use it to find the prisoner, but it’s gonna take some time!”

“We don’t have much in the way of time,” O’Deorain muttered.

“Rook, with me, we’re on cell duty,” Soap said, ignoring O’Deorain. “The rest of you, split off and focus on the other half of the cells!”

“Moving out,” Reyes said, jerking his head to show his team where to go. Rook fell in behind Soap, stomping down a metal staircase to start checking cells. Nothing so far – each one was either empty, or they had been executed by the Russians. He could tell – the blood was still fresh. Whoever was here, they must not have wanted 141 to get a hold of them. As they moved, a locked security door stopped them.

“Ghost, we’ve hit a security door, get it open!” Soap said.

“Same over here,” Reyes relayed.

“Working on it…” Ghost replied, groaning in frustration. “This hardware is ancient!”

A buzzer rang out, followed up by the door – on the wrong side – opening.

“You’ve got the wrong door!” Rook yelled.

“Roger, standby.” A few seconds later, the other one opened, allowing them to move freely. Looked like Reyes and his team were having similar success. The more they circled around the cells, the less evidence they found that Prisoner 627 had ever been here.

“These cells are deserted,” Rook said.

“Talk to me, Ghost, where’s the prisoner?”

“Got it!” Ghost shouted triumphantly. “Prisoner 627’s been transferred to the east wing! Head through the armory in the center, that’s the fastest way there.”

Rook needed no further encouragement, heading down to the armory and noting the incredibly exposed position. Reyes, O’Deorain, Genji and McCree soon joined them, taking stock and checking ammo.

“Bad news,” Ghost reported. “I count three – no, four – hostile squads converging on your position!”

“Aye, I can hear them coming,” Soap said.

“Team, get ready to kill,” Reyes ordered. Behind him, Rook could hear Blackwatch locking and loading, even as the banging and clattering of a dozen boots against metal walkways echoed around them.

“We’re too exposed here,” Rook said. “Can we get this door open?”

“Working on – oh bloody hell, they’ve locked it from the hardline! I’ll have to run a bypass.”

Bullets zipped past them, shattering windows as they and the Russians traded fire with one another. The firefight was all-consuming, overwhelming any orders or callouts on enemy soldiers. It was a good thing Rook had confidence in his own armor, otherwise he’d feel fairly concerned right about now.

“Clearing the area,” Reyes said, leading a charge with Genji as the door opened, seemingly slaughtered the troops on the other side of the pass without much issue. Well, at least that problem was solved.

“This is Ghost, recommend you bypass the lower floors by rappelling out that window.”

“Copy that,” Soap said, immediately hooking up. Rook followed suit, with Blackwatch not far behind. He could feel it – time was running out to get to the prisoner.

“Camera feed in solitary is dead, power must be down in that section,” Ghost reported.

“Copy that. Team, switch to night vision.”

Green filled Rook’s eyesight as he lowered the night-vision goggles onto his face, moving carefully to avoid tripping over and errant rocks or bricks that had been disturbed by the bombing. So far, so good. No further Russians to worry about as they proceeded into what looked like a chapel.

“I’m detecting two heat signatures,” Ghost reported as they neared a wall. “One of them should be Prisoner 627.”

Rook planted a breaching charge on the wall, stepping back to wait for the countdown. After Soap counted, the charge went off, blowing a nicely-sized hole in the wall that they surged through. On the other side, Rook watched a disheveled man wrap a chain around a Russian’s throat, choking him – and then slamming him right into Rook. He fell to his back, not expecting the sudden turn of events as he was punched in the face. Seconds later, he came face to face with the barrel of an AK-74. A mere blink of the eye later, Reyes held a shotgun to the prisoner’s head.

“Drop it,” Reyes said, venom in his voice.

Wait. Rook knew who this was. “Price?

“Reyes?”

“Who the hell’s Price?” McCree asked.

Price lowered the rifle, and Reyes withdrew his shotgun. The tension of having a gun in his face faded away, and Soap approached, unholstering his pistol and presenting it to Price.

“This belongs to you, sir.”

* * *

_February 14th, 2011_

_Credenhill, United Kingdom_

_17:37:39_

“I’ve got a blank check,” Shepherd announced as he headed into the room. “And we’re going to use every cent of it killing Makarov. There’s an evil man hiding in these shadows, and we’re gonna bring him into the light. Once his face is revealed, we will write history, gentlemen.”

“I like the sound of it already,” Price said, having cleaned up and already taken back one of his signature cigars. “What’s the next move?”

Rook looked to the map next to Shepherd, revealing a place on the Georgian-Russian border, and what was simply termed a “boneyard” in Afghanistan. Shepherd gestured to the map as he spoke. “These are the last two safe havens on Earth for Makarov and his men. We’re going to make them _un_safe.”

“Sounds like we need to be in two places at once,” Rook chimed in.

“We do,” Commander Morrison said. “Rook, you and Ghost will lead a team to the location we’ve termed the Estate.”

“Price, you and Soap will head to the Boneyard,” Shepherd said. “We suspect there’s an arms deal going down there.”

“Sounds good,” Rook said. “When do we go in?”

“Tomorrow. We will cut off all avenues of escape. This ends _now._”


	9. Loose Ends

_February 15th, 2011_

_Georgian-Russian Border_

_15:36:11_

“Snipers in position.”

Rook sighed, steeling himself for the combat to come. Usually, he found mountains like this pretty – it reminded him of vacations with Gilles in _Pyrénées-Atlantiques,_ fond memories of skiing and snowboarding, with good food and an even better companion in the chill of late winter. This was not the mountains of France he knew. This was a place corrupted by a madman’s singular goal for destruction.

“Strike team go,” Ghost said. “Engage Makarov on sight.”

Rook and Ghost began to move down the mountain, linking up with the rest of the assault team near the woods on approach to the estate. The woods were quiet, serene almost. Rook knew it wouldn’t stay this way for long.

As they slowly advanced, Rook spotted a number of small, circular disks that ejected themselves from the ground. Mines. Rook, Ghost and two of the others – Scarecrow and Ozone – dropped to the ground, below the effective area of the bounding mines. Others were less fortunate, and as the explosion gave Rook a spot of shellshock, he heard Ghost shout out the words nobody wanted to hear – ambush.

“Targets!” Scarecrow shouted. “Left side! Left side!”

Rook’s ears were ringing as he brought up his rifle, rolling to displace and engaging with the enemy. Were they Ultranationalists, or Talon? At this point, he wasn’t sure if it mattered. Still, he found his focus and began to return fire. Smoke grenades began to pop and fizzle, filling the air with white smoke. Further explosions rocked the ground and spewed dirt and rocks everywhere.

“They’ve got this area presighted for mortar fire!” Scarecrow shouted.

“Counterattack into the smoke!” Ghost yelled. “Go, go, go!”

Rook picked himself up off the ground, charging down the hill with what remained of the strike team. They ran through the smoke into a clearing, where only the stumps of once-tall trees remained. On the right, arrays for solar panels stood, probably a self-sustaining way for the safehouse to draw power without being on the grid. Waves of enemy soldiers charged at them, each one dispersed in short order.

“We’ve got two trucks leaving the target building,” one of the sniper teams reported.

“Don’t let them get away!” Ghost shouted, opening fire on the trucks as they careened down the road. Somebody shot off a Javelin, destroying one of them. The other was consumed with gunfire shortly after. No sign of Makarov, yet.

“Be advised, we have not, repeat, have _not_ spotted Makarov. No one else has left the house, those trucks may have been decoys, over.”

They now advanced on the safehouse. Time to breach and clear. Rook and Ghost took up position at the front door, with Rook planting the charge. Another three-count, followed by the charge detonating. Four targets inside, each one dispatched within seconds as Scarecrow and Ozone breached from another side of the building. As the casings fell, clattering on the floor, Rook paused, breathing deeply. It seemed this was it.

A wall of photographs covered one of the walls in the living room, flanked by an open laptop and a whiteboard. Folding tables displayed blueprints for the airport massacre, as well as a full game plan. In the kitchen, Rook found all the tools needed to build homemade C4 bombs. Newspaper clippings were all over the place, probably a way for Makarov to track his various exploits.

“All clear,” Rook called.

“Shepherd, this is Ghost. No sign of Makarov. I repeat, no sign of Makarov. How’s it going in Afghanistan?”

“Plenty of hired guns, but no Makarov. Perhaps our intel was off.”

Ghost looked over to Rook, nodding. “Well, the quality of our intel’s about to change. This house is a bloody goldmine.”

“Copy that,” Shepherd said. “Ghost, have your team start collecting everything for an operations playbook. I want names, contacts, places, everything.”

“Already on it, sir,” Ghost said. By this time, Rook had already begun collecting papers together, stacking them in neat groups for later analysis. “Makarov will have nowhere to run.”

“That’s the idea. I’m bringing up an extraction team, ETA five minutes. Get that intel. Shepherd out.”

“Rook, get on that laptop and start transferring things to this drive,” Ghost said, tossing a flash drive over to him. “Ozone, you’re rear security, I’m front. Let’s go.”

Rook began moving files, watching the time add up as more and more intel made its way through. At this rate, it’d take a good amount of time.

“Task Force, this is Price. More of Makarov’s men arrived at the boneyard. I’m going to slot into their comms, we’re going silent for a few minutes. Price out.”

_That was odd,_ Rook thought as he continued to collect intel. Well, he couldn’t much focus on it now. Off in the distance, a booming noise echoed through the pass.

“What the hell was that?” Scarecrow asked.

“Sniper Team One to strike team, be advised, we have enemy helos approaching from the northwest, over.”

Gunfire began to break out. Looks like Makarov’s men weren’t keen on letting them leave with this intel. No matter, Rook could deal with this. All that mattered was protecting the transfer disk and ensuring they got out. Ultranationalist troops burst through the front door, trading shots with Rook and Ghost as they did. They decided better of charging through there, moving to another door.

“I’m hit!” Scarecrow shouted. He was in the kitchen – that left their flank exposed. Rook turned to help him, but only saw his dead body. He maneuvered through the kitchen, dodging gunfire and dispatching several enemy soldiers as he did.

“Scarecrow’s dead!” Rook called out, setting down a claymore to cover his retreat from the kitchen. No point staying here, and if he heard it go off, he would know there was an enemy there.

“They’re everywhere!” Ozone shouted, his radio falling silent not long after.

“Oh fuck, this is Sniper Team Two, we’re under-”

How fast was this thing transferring? Rook took his attention off the combat to check on it – soon, very soon. They could head out, with much less support than they had before. Nearly four minutes had elapsed. Shepherd better be there. Rook didn’t often admit he got scared, but the knowledge that only he and Ghost were still up was plenty unnerving.

Another group of hostiles, breaching from both the front and right sides. Ghost’s shouts on where the enemy was got lost as Rook fired his rifle, taking cover behind the stairs and peeking out only long enough to shoot back. Bullets whipped past his head as he hastily shoved a new magazine in, racking back the charging handle and leaning out to come face to face with an Ultranationalist soldier. Three shots, fired in rapid succession, hit him and the enemy was down. The sound of Russian filled his ears and mixed with the chaos of desperate combat with what felt like a horde of Ultranationalists. Rook glanced over at the laptop, breaking from cover to check it and firing back as he went.

“Transfer’s done!” Rook shouted as he yanked the flash drive out of the laptop.

“Finally! I’ll cover our approach! Go!”

Rook and Ghost moved out the front door, heading back through the clearing they had come in on. They paused only to turn and shoot at the advancing Ultranationalist cohort chasing after them. Mortar fire fell all around them, destroying stumps and sending pieces of metal everywhere.

“This is Shepherd, we’re almost at the LZ. What’s your status, over?”

“We’re on our way to the LZ!” Ghost yelled.

“They’re bracketing our position with mortars! Keep moving!”

They headed down another hill, chased by bullets and mortars the entire way. Rook spotted Shepherd’s Pave Low come into view. Before he could keep running for it, a mortar landed almost right in front of him, throwing him back and blacking his vision out. He came to what felt like an eternity later, being dragged to the helicopter by Ghost. Something hurt, but he wasn’t sure what. Where was his rifle? Gone, time to swap over to the pistol. He unholstered his P9, cocking the hammer back and beginning to fire on the Ultranationalists that chased after them. With his vision as blurry as it was, he really wasn’t sure if he was actually hitting any targets.

“Come on, Rook, get up!” Ghost shouted, draping Rook’s arm around his shoulder and pulling him up. Together, they began to move for the helicopter as Rook, holstering his pistol, wearily fished out the flash drive. Still good. Thank God for that, at least. He could hear the radio traffic from the extraction force, talking about Gold Eagle being on the ground. Must have been Shepherd. He met them in his helicopter, and men in unfamiliar uniforms began to fan out. Maybe it was the shock of being hit by a mortar getting to him.

“Do you have the intel?” Shepherd asked, walking down the helicopter’s ramp towards them.

“Right here, sir,” Rook muttered, handing it over.

Shepherd nodded, taking the flash drive and putting his hand on Rook’s shoulder to help him get in the helicopter. “Good,” he said. “That’s one less loose end.”

Something hot slammed into his stomach, and immediately Rook realized he had been shot. He looked down, spotting Shepherd holding a massive revolver in his hand. Ghost, shocked at the betrayal, tried to maneuver his rifle around, but Shepherd easily killed him with another shot.

Rook fell to the ground, sputtering as he choked on blood and unable to speak. Helplessly, he watched Shepherd wave someone over, where two soldiers – who he could now recognize as Talon – grabbed him and Ghost, tossing them into a puddle. A third Talon soldier poured gasoline over them, and Rook found himself staring at Ghost’s body next to him.

“Ghost! Come in!” Price said over the radio. “This is Price! We’re under attack by Talon at the boneyard! Soap, hold the left flank! Do _not_ trust Shepherd, I say again, _do not trust Shepherd! _Soap, get down!”

Static filled the radio as he looked back up, still coughing on his own blood. Shepherd stood over him, tossing a lit cigar onto their bodies. The flames began to consume him as his vision faded, a helicopter flying away being the last thing Rook ever saw.

* * *

_February 15th, 2011_

_17:03:35_  
  
130 kilometers SW of Kandahar, Afghanistan

“Ghost? Rook? Do you copy?” Soap shouted into his radio. “Do you copy? Does _anyone_ copy?”

“They’re dead, Soap,” Price said, matter of fact. “Shepherd’s cleaning house. I’m working my way back to you.”

Soap clenched his fist, trying to do everything in his power to not start punching the broken airplane he was taking cover behind. “Shepherd _betrayed_ us,” he muttered.

“Have to trust someone to be betrayed. I never did. Tracer, come in. Do you have our location?”

“I’m inbound! But I’m not the only one, I think! You’ve got Talon’s men on one side, Makarov’s on the other.”

“We’ll have to take them all out, then,” Price said.

“Looks like a hell of a fight down there! Either way, I’ll see you soon!”

Soap gritted his teeth, looking out beyond cover. Already, the Russians and Shepherd’s men were heavily engaged with each other, ignorant to Soap. He’d have to do this alone. Gunfire was raging between the two sides – they’d really gone all-out for this fight, hadn’t they? Soap could see not just heavily armored Ultranationalists and Talon operatives, but they had even brought out armored vehicles and SUV fitted with heavy machine guns for good measure.

“Go to Rally Point Bravo,” Price instructed. “Tracer, be advised, the LZ is hot, I repeat, the LZ is hot.”

“Gotcha!” Tracer replied. How could she be so bloody chipper during all this? “Just, uh, try and have it under control before I get there, alright loves?”

Price chuckled. “Sure, whatever you say. Soap, let Makarov and Shepherd’s men kill each other off as long as you can. We can use their comms to listen in on their own traffic. I’m going to try to contact Makarov.”

Soap furrowed his brow as he moved in and between broken planes and vehicles. “What? Why?”

Price ignored him, it seemed like. _Bloody old man._ “Makarov, this is Price. Shepherd’s a hero now. He’s got your playbook and a blank check. Give me what you’ve got on Shepherd, and I’ll take care of the rest. I know you can hear me on this channel. You and I both know you won’t last a week.”

Dead silence. Soap shook his head. Why did Price think that would work? He kept low, hearing pissed-off Bulgarian nearby. At this point, he really couldn’t tell if he was listening to Talon or Ultranationalists.

“And neither will you,” Makarov said. Bloody hell, he took the bait?

“Makarov, you ever hear the old saying, the enemy of my enemy is my friend?”

“Price, one day you’re going to find that cuts both ways. Shepherd is using Site Hotel Bravo. You know where it is. I’ll see you in hell.”

“Looking forward to it. Send my regards to Zakhaev if you get there first.”

Soap shook his head, muttering to himself as he sprinted in between cover. Makarov and Shepherd’s men had caught on to him, alternating between shooting each other, and shooting at _him._ Soap slung his sniper rifle onto his back, finding it useless at the distances he was engaging at and swapping over to an MP5, firing on a group of Talon operatives nearby that had taken to cover. Russian broke onto the scene shortly after, followed up with a nice hail of bullets heading Soap’s way that forced him to scramble behind the shell of an American armored vehicle.

He glanced around the corner. Makarov and Shepherd’s men had forgotten about him for the moment, instead much more interested in shooting the hell out of each other. Opportunity – he could move now without them seeing him. Soap sprinted out of cover, heading to the rally point. Looked like Talon was plenty happy to kill the Ultranationalists, and at this point, the Ultranationalists seemed to feel the same way. Honeymoon must have been over. He headed to the apex of a plane that had been split in half to reveal a runway teeming with enemies.

“Price, I’m approaching now!” Tracer reported. “I, uh, I see you _don’t_ have it under control. This is gonna be a bit dodgy to land!”

“Just shut up and land the bloody plane!” Price yelled. “We’re on our way!”

Soap watched Tracer’s plane land, despite all odds, and Price pulled up with a Russian jeep, banging on the side. Soap hopped in the driver’s seat, punching it to make their way through the mass of Russian armored vehicles and American-made SUVs with mounted heavy machine guns, slamming enemy vehicles when they got too close.

“Tracer!” Price shouted as they hit the runway itself, trailing behind Tracer’s plane. “Drop the ramp! We’re incoming!”

“Dropping ramp!”

Soap pushed the jeep as best he could, avoiding the slams from enemy vehicles and occasionally pulling out his pistol to shoot enemy drivers as he aimed for the ramp. He was close. Even closer now. The wheels skidded as they made contact with the ramp, lurching him forward as they drove into the plane’s cargo bay. He turned around to see the ramp closing, with Tracer taking off and flying away.

“Bloody made it,” Soap muttered. “So, what now Price?”

“We kill Shepherd.”

Soap turned off the jeep, putting it in park and climbing over the broken windshield to get out, dusting glass off of him. “So, that simple, eh?”

“Has to be,” Price replied. “Tracer! Where are you at?”

“Right here!” she said, appearing behind a corner. “Wow, that was something, huh? Commander Morrison didn’t tell me anything, so I was surprised to hear from you guys! What were you doing in Afghanistan, anyway?”

Soap smirked, shaking his head. “Thought we were killing Makarov.”

“Oh, yeah! That’s what your task force is all about, innit? Well, how’d it go?”

Soap and Price exchanged the same weary look. That apparently told Tracer all she needed to know.

“Oh, that bad, huh?”

“Get me in touch with Morrison.”

Tracer blinked, blank-faced for a second before nodding. “Uh, alright then. Give me a second.”

She headed over to the cockpit, pulling up a console and typing in some sort of authorization code. Soap leaned against the back wall, pulling back the hood on his ghillie suit. No need to keep that on now. He watched the console begin to connect to Overwatch’s headquarters in Geneva, on a direct line to Morrison’s office.

“Tracer?” Morrison said. “What do you need? This is for-”

“Right, yes, uh, sorry sir, but… well, Captain Price wants to talk to you.”

Price took the microphone from her, clearing his throat. “Commander. We’ve got a problem.”

“Why the hell are you calling _me,_ Price?” Morrison asked. “Shouldn’t you be talking to Shepherd right about now?”

“Shepherd is the problem.”

The line went quiet, and for a short moment, Soap began to think maybe Commander Morrison was in on it too. This couldn’t possibly go _that _far, right? No, that didn’t make sense. But, then again, he thought he could trust Shepherd too.

“Price, this wouldn’t happen to be connected to this report I just got that’s telling me Task Force 141 is disavowed, would it?”

Soap’s eyes went wide, and he stared at Tracer, who had the same shocked look as he did. That couldn’t be right. But… then again, it made sense. Shepherd knew they had figured out his plan. Probably had sent Talon to Makarov’s supposed deal to kill them, and Makarov’s men at once. Two birds with one stone.

“Shepherd’s working with Talon,” Price said, apparently unfazed by the news. “Our team in Russia isn’t responding, they’re probably dead.”

“So, what,” Morrison said, sighing heavily. “You’re telling me that a highly respected United States Army general is working with one of the world’s biggest terrorist organizations?”

Price chuckled, nodding. “That’s about the gist of it, yeah.”

“You know how crazy this sounds, right?” Morrison said.

“I do,” Price replied, pacing around the cockpit of Tracer’s plane. “It’s the truth.”

“How can I believe it when all I have is the word of a disavowed SAS operative against a general’s?”

“We were attacked by Talon forces in Afghanistan, and Makarov’s men. Half of them shot us, the rest shot each other. They’ve been protecting each other for months now. Why would they fight each other?”

Morrison sighed on the other end of the line. “You know what, I really don’t know, Price. The point is, right now, I should be telling _my_ pilot to arrest both of you and fly your happy asses over here.”

“But you’re not going to,” Price said, a certain smile on his face. How did he know how people would react to things like this?

“No, I’m not. I had my suspicions too.” Morrison sighed again, weary. “Listen, I had Reyes look into some things. Shepherd’s fishy. But I can’t sanction any Overwatch action on this. So, as far as I care, Tracer’s out flying around on test flights, and you two clowns were never on that plane. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

“Good. Commander Morrison out.”


	10. The Enemy of My Enemy

_February 16th, 2011_

_Site Hotel Bravo, Afghanistan_

_17:32:36_

“We’ve got one good UMP,” Soap muttered, looking over the aforementioned SMG as he stuffed magazines into his rig. “They’ve got a thousand. We don’t even know if Makarov’s intel is any good.”

Price smirked, nodding. “The healthy human mind doesn’t wake up in the morning thinking this is its last day on Earth. But I think that’s a luxury, not a curse. To know you’re close to the end is a kind of freedom. Good time to take… inventory.”

“What’s he talking about?” Tracer asked.

“Right,” Soap said. “Outgunned, outmanned, out of our bloody minds.”

“On a suicide mission,” Price finished. “The sand and rocks here are stained with thousands of years of warfare, but they will remember us for this. Because out of our vast array of nightmares, this is the one we choose for ourselves. We go forward like a breath exhaled from the Earth, with vigor in our hearts and one goal in sight. We. Will. Kill him.”

The plane was silent for a few moments as they prepared to drop in via HALO. Tracer swallowed heavily, maintaining a steady course. “Uh, well, that was a good speech, Captain,” she finally said. “Um, I’ll wait for you at the exfil point, three hours.”

“Don’t bother,” Price replied. “This was a one-way flight, mate.”

“O-oh… uh… well, good luck then.”

Price and Soap did checks on each other’s equipment, with good parachutes packed and ready to go. The ramp began to fall, a red light enshrouding the area as they waited for the green light to go. Within a second, it flicked on and Soap found himself running forward automatically, descending rapidly to the sand-covered cliffs of Afghanistan. His chute pulled at him, sending his stomach practically to his feet as it drew back and caught air, allowing him to slowly drift down.

“Cave must be somewhere over the edge,” Price said as he began to pack up his chute and stowing it away.

Soap did the same, grabbing his UMP and advancing alongside Price. “Here goes nothing.”

Just ahead, a group of Talon operatives converged on the road, stopping to speak to one another. Looked like Makarov’s intel was good. They observed the patrol, completely unnoticed, for a minute until the patrol split in two.

“Good, they’re splitting up. Let’s listen to their comms.”

“This decryption code better be worth the price we paid,” Soap muttered.

_“Go ahead, Alpha.”_

_ “Riverbed all clear, over.”_

_ “Bravo?”_

_ “Sandstorm. Not much to see right now, over.”_

_ “Zulu?”_

_ “Uh, we’re starting our patrol east along the canyon. North-side access road, over.”_

Price raised his rifle to his cheek, aiming at the group splitting off to the right. “Focus on those guys. I’ve got the two on the left.”

Soap did the same, waiting for Price’s mark. One three, the two sent out short bursts that killed their respective Talon opponents, each one unaware of their presence.

“Just like old times,” Price muttered as they advanced along the path the Talon patrol was taking. “Let’s take out that other group before they come back. You see them?”

“Aye, waiting on your mark.”

Another countdown. Another set of enemy soldiers killed.

“Won’t be long before they find the bodies,” Soap said as they headed towards the edge of the cliff.

“Let’s keep moving. Hook up here, the entrance should be below.”

Soap and Price hooked up to rappel down, and as he looked over the edge, Soap could see two guards blow.

_“Disciple Four, Oxide. What’s your status, over?”_

No answer. They must have just killed Disciple Four. Price and Soap rappelled down silently, hovering above the two guards with knives out. Time to do this quietly.

_"Disciple Four, Oxide. Do you copy, over?”_

Soap plunged his knife into the Talon operative’s neck, blood spurting as she looked around, confused as to what was happening and where Soap had even come from. As he pulled his knife away, she fell to the ground and bled out, or at least he assumed so.

_“Hey, I’m not getting anything from Disciple Four, north-ridge road. Could be a bad transmitter.”_

Price and Soap maneuvered themselves to put their feet back on solid ground, unhooking their rappel lines and heading inside the bunker the two Talon guards had been standing in front of. The walls weren’t poured concrete, like he had expected, but were more accurately a blasted-out hole in the side of the cliff, with simple lights providing the only illumination.

“Patrol coming our way,” Price whispered. “Go left, let them pass.”

Soap and Price crouched behind a series of boxes, shielding them from the prying eyes and flashlights of the incoming patrol. So far, they had no idea Price and Soap were even there.

_“Butcher Seven, Oxide. We’ve lost contact with Disciple Five. Probably just the sandstorm that’s rolling in, or a bad transmitter. Send a team to check it out, over.”_

_ “Roger that, Oxide. I’ll send Vinson and Lambert. Butcher Seven out.”_

The patrol passed, allowing Soap and Price to continue deeper into the facility. The narrow hallways opened up to larger rooms, packed with terminals, maps of various kinds, and all sorts of tech that didn’t match the surroundings.

“Two tangos with taclights coming down the stairs,” Soap whispered.

“I’ll take the one on the right,” Price said. Soap aligned his sights with the one on the left, waiting for them to hit the bottom step before firing.

“Clear,” Soap said quietly.

_"Disciple Six, we’ve lost contact with Disciple Five. Check it out, over.”_

_ “Roger that, Oxide. We’re on the catwalk heading to the steam room. Standby.”_

The steam room was just up ahead, right at the top of the stairs they had just killed the two with lights from. As they headed in, the room went dark. Time to use the night vision goggles.

_“Disciple Six, go dark. Breach and clear.”_

“Hearing their comms makes this too easy,” Price muttered.

_“Door charge planted, ready to breach.”_

_ “Hit it.”_

The charge exploded, destroying the door and quickly followed up by Talon pushing through the new hole, searching the area. No light sources – they must have had NVGs too.

_“Foxtrot element, sweep left. Charlie element, scan the area.”_

_“They’re here!”_

“Go loud,” Price said, almost right before Talon fired the first shots. The shootout in the dark was consumed by gunshots echoing off every rock wall and pipe, made even more confusing by Talon’s switch to native languages. Each element began speaking what Soap could only positively identify as either Dutch or German, with the occasional peppering of French added in. Must have been a squad-sized element sent in – they didn’t prove to be too much trouble for Price and Soap to handle as they moved out of the steam room through red-lit halls to an outcropping that served as a pathway to another bunker.

_“Disciple Nine, your rearguard just flatlined!”_

_ “Not possible, we just cleared that area. Nobody’s-”_

_ “It’s Price.”_ Shepherd. Well, if they weren’t on to the gambit now, surely they couldn’t ignore this. _“Backup priority items and burn the rest. Fireteams, delay them until we’re ready to pull out.”_

“Let’s get going,” Price said. “We need to move fast if we want to reach Shepherd.”

They began to run, only pausing to engage scattered Talon fireteams as they advanced up the outcropping to the next underground bunker.

_“Oxide, Butcher Five-Actual. I’ve got a severed det cord, we’re going to need ten mikes to get the trunk rigged and the EBC primed, over.”_

_ “Negative, Gold Eagle wants those charges hot in less than three mikes. Get it done, out.”_

“Gold Eagle must be Shepherd,” Soap said.

“They’ve sealed the control room,” Price shouted as he neared the door. “Get a charge on it!”

Soap unfolded the breaching charge, nodding to Price to confirm he was ready. Once he got the go-ahead, he detonated it and surged through, immediately opening fire on the Talon elements inside. The command room was packed to the brim with explosives, none of which were armed thankfully, detailing all sorts of Talon operations worldwide. If only they had time to detail all of this.

_“All units, this is Gold Eagle. The site has been compromised. I am executing Directive One-One-Six Bravo. If you’re still inside, your service will be honored. Shepherd out.”_

The door outside remained open, through which Price and Soap began to run. The rock walls led out to a massive motor pool, packed to the brim with vehicles and a handful of helicopters, all loading up with Talon troops.

_“Excalibur, this is Gold Eagle. Fire mission, target package Romeo, danger close.”_

_ “That’s within a hundred meters of your position, sir!”_

_ “It’s not a suggestion. Send it.”_

_“Roger, fire mission danger close.”_

Within mere seconds, Soap watched the motor pool become consumed with explosions and flames. Shepherd had really done it, hadn’t he? Madman had called in an artillery strike on his own men, demolishing whatever transport they had left and annihilating the men meant to slow him and Price down.

“Since when does Shepherd care about danger close,” Price muttered angrily as they moved through the remains of the chaos.

_ “Sir, sandstorm activity is picking up here. It’s too risky for flight ops.”_

_ “Understood, head for the tunnel. We’ll take the Zodiacs.”_

Tunnel. Tunnel. Tunnel. Where the hell was the tunnel he was talking about? Couldn’t have been the one they just came from, that didn’t make sense. Soap searched, finding one to the west. Looked like it went down, must have been river access in there. It was the only way out he could see. He and Price ran down the narrow tunnel, which opened up to reveal a rickety wooden staircase down to the water’s edge, where a Zodiac waited almost as if it had been laid out for them.

Soap jumped into the boat, immediately gunning it as he took control of the motor. Talon troops were all around them, shouting in various languages as they pointed to Price and Soap. The tunnel fed out into a river, stocked with spires that poked out from the water. A helicopter flew overhead, and he could hear it spinning up a pair of miniguns. Price alternated between shooting left and right, shifting sides to get a stable platform as the boat rocked back and forth. How the hell was Shepherd’s boat this fucking fast?

“Rapids up ahead!” Price shouted as they suddenly dropped down. If it was even possible, the rapids threw their little boat around even more as the helicopter broke off. Water splashed him constantly, soaking him from head to toe as he tried to maneuver the Zodiac around potential hazards.

_“Avatar One, give me a sitrep, over!”_

_ “I have Warhorse 5-1, standing by. Pave Low’s downriver, sir.”_

_ “Copy that! Warhorse 5-1, be advised, we’re coming in hot!”_

_ “Roger, dropping the hatch. Keep it above 30 knots and watch vertical clearance.”_

Soap watched helplessly as the Zodiac slipped into the Pave Low, and it began to take off. Price turned to him, yelling to keep it steady. What the hell was Price thinking?

_“Uh, crew, we got a sandstorm at 12 o’clock, we’re taking the long way around, hang on.”_

Soap watched Price aim at the helicopter’s rotors, firing three times. The third shot sent sparks flying out from the rotor assembly, starting a fire that forced the helicopter to begin falling out of the sky. Unfortunately, the river was now turning into a waterfall, and Soap couldn’t get the Zodiac to reverse in time. Soap watched as they slid over the waterfall’s edge, slamming into the pool of water below.

He struggled to get ashore, and when he did, all he could hear was the helicopter’s rotors slowly whirring down as he coughed, ejecting water from his lungs. As he stood up, a jolt of pain shot up his leg. Must have done something to fuck it up as he hit water. Soap could see a light just ahead in the sandstorm – what was that? May as well head to it, didn’t know where Price was. Soap pulled his knife out, prepared to kill Shepherd just in case he hadn’t been killed by the crash.

There was a clattering from the helicopter. There he was. Shepherd stumbled out of the ruined helicopter, clutching his side. Damned old man was faster than Soap was in this state, and soon disappeared into the sand. Soap hastily followed, limping along as best he could. He heard coughing. Must have been Shepherd. Soap found him leaning against a car, staring at him.

“You know what they say about revenge,” Shepherd muttered. “You better be ready to dig two graves. Go ahead and end it. It won’t change anything.”

Soap raised the knife to stab Shepherd, but before he could even swing it towards the bastard, Shepherd had grabbed his arm and blocked the strike. He used Soap’s momentum against him, slamming his head into the roof of the car. For a second, his vision went white as he fell to the ground, staring up dazed and confused. Shepherd drew a knife, and with hatred in his eyes, dug it straight into Soap’s chest.

“Five years ago,” Shepherd muttered. “I lost thirty thousand men in the blink of an eye. And the world just _fuckin’ watched._ Tomorrow, there’ll be no shortage of volunteers, no shortage of patriots.” Soap alternated between staring at the knife in his chest and at Shepherd, loading his revolver. He cocked the hammer, aiming it at Soap’s head.

“I know you understand,” Shepherd said.

Just as he pulled the trigger and Soap accepted his fate, Price came in from seemingly nowhere, tackling Shepherd to the ground and causing the shot to go wide. The two engaged in a brutal melee, where Price managed to disarm Shepherd. Soap tracked the revolved. He had seen how many rounds Shepherd put it – just two. It’d have to be enough.

Soap began to crawl towards it, only hearing the sounds of fists hitting bone and flesh a few feet away from him. Good thing the knife was keeping the blood in him, otherwise he’d be proper fucked right about now. Just as he reached the revolver, Shepherd’s tan boot came into view, kicking it away. The other one came for Soap’s face, knocking him on his back again. He looked back over to see Price and Shepherd back to beating each other down, and while Price was good… it looked like Shepherd was better.

His vision fading in and out, Soap looked over at the knife still in his chest. Shepherd had knocked Price to the ground, was beating on him. There was only one choice Soap had. Sacrifice his own life to save someone else. Soap gripped the knife, as best he could in his weakened, battered state, and struggled to pull it out of himself. The pain was unlike anything he had felt before, like fire was consuming his entire chest and making his arms impossible to use.

Finally, it was out, even with the pain becoming worse by the passing second. Soap flipped it around in his hand, ensuring it was in proper form to throw. Shepherd hadn’t seen any of it. Good.

“Oi, Shepherd,” Soap managed to eke out.

The disgraced general looked up, just as Soap threw the knife. He watched it spin edge over grip, until it landed right in the general’s eye. He fell backwards off of Price, who by now was motionless. Soap coughed, staring up. Well, here he was again. Lying wounded, in a place nobody knew about, with nobody to help.

Somebody groaning caught his attention. He looked up to see Price stirring. The old man was alive after all, the bloody immortal bastard. Price got to his feet, shaky at first, but on his feet regardless. If only Soap could do the same now.

“Soap,” Price muttered, heading for him. “Soap!”

He found his vision blacking out again. By the time it returned, he heard a helicopter. Price looked up to see who it was – Tracer. _Tracer?_ What the hell was she doing here?

“I thought I told you this was a one-way trip!” Price yelled.

“No offense, but… looks like it still is!” she said. “They’ll be lookin’ for you, you know!”

“Tracer, we’ve gotta get Soap outta here.”

“Don’t worry. I know a place,” she said as Soap’s vision went black again.


	11. Persona Non Grata

_February 16th, 2011_

_Somewhere in Himachal Pradesh, India_

_09:18:33_

Jean-Baptiste Augustin groaned, rolling his neck as he rose out of bed. Late start today. He’d have to get a cup of coffee – or two, even – when he got to the clinic. It was nice to be back home, even if it was for a little while. He’d have to get out of India soon, too many people were after him. Baptiste sighed as he pulled a shirt on that was probably clean enough. Like that even mattered when you measured your time in a place not by months and years, but how long the hotels let you stay before they kicked you out.

Hearing helicopters overhead wasn’t unusual. India’s army had been alerted by something, intensely paranoid about some sort of incursion. Not that he cared. Right now, he just wanted to do his rounds at the clinic and head to his favorite spot afterwards for a nice drink. He tied his boots as he normally did, breathing in the fresh air he had come to love.

That was right about when he saw the helicopter that was practically landing in his front yard. He furrowed his brow, trying to figure out who the hell was landing _here_ of all places. The symbols on the bird looked familiar. Someone jumped out from the passenger’s side, sliding open a door to drag someone else out.

“Lena?” Baptiste said, staring at the diminutive British pilot as she rounded the craft.

“Hiya!” she shouted, grabbing the unknown man’s legs. He could see the blood from here, a hasty gauze job covering his chest. What the hell was going on?

“You’re a doctor?” the bearded man asked, though Baptiste could see numerous day-old bruises on his face.

“I-well yes, but-”

“Fix him!” the man shouted, carrying the bleeding man inside. Baptiste sighed, shaking his head and moving to clear off a table. That’d have to do for now. He grabbed his emergency medical kit, but wasn’t sure if that’d be enough to really help.

“Lena, please tell me there’s a good reason for interrupting my Friday morning,” Baptiste said as he began to gingerly take the gauze off the wounded man’s chest. _That’s one hell of a stab wound._

Lena sighed, wiping sweat off her brow. “Well, I couldn’t take them to any Overwatch facilities, and… you’re about the only doctor I know outside of them, so…”

“Wait,” Baptiste said, standing up and backing away from the wounded man. “They aren’t Talon, are they?”

“Do we bloody look like Talon to you?!” the bearded man demanded, narrowing his eyes at him.

Baptiste looked back, trying to judge his intent. “No, I suppose not. Fine. But I _do_ want an explanation.”

“Worry about keeping him alive first.”

“I’m a doctor, not a miracle worker,” Baptiste replied. He wondered how much this man understood that. This wound was _deep,_ and if it had gotten _anywhere_ vital, there was little even he could do. “Where did you say you came from?”

“Uh, Afghanistan,” Lena replied.

Baptiste looked up, cocking an eyebrow. “What in the world were you doing in Afghanistan?”

“Picking up friends?” Lena said, shrugging as she flashed that stupid smile of hers. She could melt anyone’s heart with that.

Baptiste shook his head, returning to examining the wounded man. Aside from the stab wound, he had a bootprint on his face, size 14 by the look of it, and what appeared to be a broken leg. What the hell had this man been through? Well, he couldn’t just keep examining him forever. It was time to operate, and do what he could to help this man.

“I have good news and bad news. Lena, if you could put some music on for me, please?”

“Sure!” Lena said, moving over to his phone. She didn’t need the password, already tapping away at it and pulling up his music app. “What do you want to listen to?”

“Some Mozart would be lovely,” he replied. “The good news is I can patch up his wound. The bad news is, he’s going to need much better care than I can provide him from my _living room._ He needs a hospital.”

“No can do on that,” the bearded man said. “This has to be strictly under the table, understand?”

Baptiste shook his head, sighing as he dabbed blood away from the man’s actively bleeding chest. Mozart’s Piano Sonata Number 11 began to play. That was a nice change. “If he doesn’t get to a hospital, the only thing that’ll be under the table is this man’s blood,” Baptiste said. “Lena, I thought you said they weren’t Talon?”

“They’re not!” she protested. “Promise!”

“Let’s just say we’re associates of Overwatch,” the bearded man said. “Do what you can. I’ll see about finding you some help.”

Baptiste looked up for only a split second to watch the bearded man walk away, just to see him collapse the minute he stepped away from the table. Great. Another patient he’d have to deal with. Clearly, he wasn’t in much condition to go anywhere, especially not with visible weapons on him.

“Price, how bloody hurt are you?!” _So that was his name._

“I’m fine,” Price muttered.

“I’m not having _two_ dead men in my house,” Baptiste said. “Lena, _you_ go find help. Price, was it? Do me a favor and sit down, alright? When I stabilize your friend here, I’ll examine you.”

Best Baptiste could do at this point was pack the man’s wound, and hopefully wrap it tightly enough with gauze to prevent any additional damage. He removed the man’s armor and clothing to make his job easier right as Sonata Number 11 changed to The Marriage of Figaro. A minute in, he had managed to stabilize the man enough. Looked like he would have to cancel his day at the clinic, maybe go in and “requisition” some blood packs. Helpfully, he had his blood type on a small label on his armor, Type O+. Always a complication of some kind. Why couldn’t he have been AB+?

One crisis over. For now, he seemed stable. He’d have to check on him later. He looked up to see Lena had disappeared, and Price lay on his couch, looking absolutely broken. Baptiste sighed, heading over to him.

“Price, right?” Baptiste said.

Price looked up at him, a grim stare on his face. “Right. Do what you have to. I’m not leaving Soap, though.”

“Don’t worry, neither am I.” He smiled warmly, gesturing to him. “So, will you let me look you over?”

Price dismissively waved his hand, a sign that Baptiste took to mean “go ahead.” Right away, he could tell this man had been in one hell of a fight. Maybe it was a fight against a brick wall with arms and legs, the way his body was beaten and bruised.

“Dare I ask what happened to you?” Baptiste said.

“I think you know better than that,” Price replied.

Baptiste nodded, knowing full well that with some people, asking no questions was better than asking anything at all. Lot of cracked ribs. Might be coupled with some internal bleeding. It was hard to tell. One thing was certain, he had been through a _lot_ of blunt-force trauma. It was a wonder he was still standing, honestly.

“Well, you’ve got a lot of bruises, and more than a few broken bones. I can set the bones, but I’m worried about what happened inside you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

The sound of a helicopter winding down drew his attention. Somehow, Lena had managed to take her helicopter, fly to God-knows where, pick someone up, _and_ bring them to Baptiste’s location in the span of… maybe twenty minutes? How the hell? She jumped out of the helicopter, joined by a blonde-haired woman clad in a medical jacket and carrying a massive kit of her own.

“He’s in here!” Lena shouted, practically dragging the other woman inside. The doctor looked more than a little concerned. Great, just what he needed.

“I see someone has already done some work on him,” the doctor said. Was that a German accent? “Which one of you did this?”

Baptiste stepped forward, doing his best to wipe blood off his hands. “I did, Doctor…?”

“Angela Ziegler,” the doctor said. “You did very excellent work, Dr…?”

“Jean-Baptiste Augustin. Not a doctor. Combat medic.”

Dr. Ziegler’s eyebrows jumped up, and she nodded before turning back to the patient. “Well, Mr. Augustin, would you mind helping me conduct another examination?”

“Of course. Our Jean Dupont has a deep stab wound, just barely seven millimeters away from his heart, lungs and arteries. He’s lucky.”

Dr. Ziegler muttered something in German, bringing out some strange medical device he didn’t recognize. “What else? Have you done a full examination?”

“His name is Soap,” Price called from the couch.

Baptiste scoffed. “What kind of a name is Soap? Well, _Soap_ also has a broken leg, possible brain trauma, but I’m worried about internal bleeding I couldn’t see in my exam.”

“Well, perhaps this will help us see what’s going on inside _Herr_ Soap’s body,” Dr. Ziegler said, running a small hand-held device over him. She sighed pensively, pursing her lips when it began to beep.

“I’m guessing that’s not good news,” Baptiste said.

“You were right to be worried about internal bleeding. It’s not severe, but it’s most definitely there.”

Baptiste nodded. “I can run down to the clinic, get some blood packs for transfusion.”

“Thank you. Hopefully it’ll stop on its own.”

“This man, though,” he said, gesturing to Price. “I’m a little more worried about.”

“Well, at least this one is _awake,”_ Dr. Ziegler said. “What seems to be the problem, Mr…?”

“Price,” he said, nodding. “I’m fine.”

“You have six cracked ribs, and your arm is broken,” Baptiste said, arching an eyebrow.

Dr. Ziegler chuckled, shaking her head. “Master of the understatement, aren’t we, Mr. Price?” Once again she scanned the device over him, which beeped again. She seemed happier with this result than the other. Must not have been any internal bleeding. “We can set the bones, but no more gallivanting around for you, Mr. Price. Reminds me of a certain strike commander…”

“So, they’re gonna be alright, yeah?” Lena asked, nervously pacing not too far away from them.

“_Herr_ Soap isn’t out of the woods by a long stretch, but I believe Mr. Price will just have to take some ibuprofen and take off that ridiculous armor.”

“I’d love to discuss prognoses,” Baptiste said, jerking his head to Soap, “but we should really do something about the man in more immediate danger, yes?”

“I agree,” Dr. Ziegler said, a resolute look crossing her face as she headed back to the table. There, she began to unpack her kit, laying out surgical tools and devices Baptiste had only seen in medical journals before. “Mr. Augustin, how long do you need to get to the clinic for blood? I fear he may need it soon.”

“I can be there and back in ten minutes,” Baptiste said.

“Please go get some,” she said. “I’ll do what I can in the meanwhile.”

Baptiste nodded, heading out the door as he grabbed the keys to his motorcycle. A quick kick-start, and he was away towards the clinic. Well, Friday morning was most definitely ruined. He’d have to figure out how to explain this to the clinic, and find a new table at the same time. Or, maybe when he inevitably left here, he could just leave it. The usual five-minute trip to the clinic took only three this time, and despite being stopped by a few helpful doctors, he managed to liberate four packs of blood. Had to be enough.

He came back to his own house to see that Dr. Ziegler was still working on Soap, blood now beginning to run up her glove-covered hands. Looked like she had opened up the gauze, but he wasn’t sure why. In a hurry, he tossed the bags of blood in his refrigerator and began a transfusion, using his coat hanger to provide a platform to start the drip from.

“You did excellent work on him with such limited resources,” Dr. Ziegler said, taking out pieces of wadding. “And good choice in music too, I may add.”

“I believe that’s the second time you’ve complimented me,” he replied, smirking.

“Well, it’s not every day I see such skill. Where did you learn medicine, if I may ask?”

He paused, pretending that he was focusing intensely on hooking up the IV and finding a vein in Soap’s arm. “Haitian Army. Some skills always transfer, I suppose.”

“So it seems,” Dr. Ziegler said, using her forearm to wipe sweat off. There was a lot of hard work ahead of them if they wanted to undo whatever damage this man had sustained. They worked nearly all day, only pausing long enough to rehydrate themselves with quick drinks from lukewarm water bottles. Though he still regarded it as impossible, Dr. Ziegler began to use quite impressive tech to more or less regenerate lost tissue to Soap’s wound, nearly eliminating the need to pack it. Still needed gauze, though, and so he once again wrapped it around Soap’s body as they began to wind down for the day.

All still in his living room. He never thought he’d see the day where blood stained the place he slept this soon. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Baptiste laid out all the blankets and pillows he had – which admittedly, wasn’t many – for his impromptu guests, ensuring one he _knew_ he was going to be left behind was used for Soap, just in case he started bleeding again overnight. Even without going to the clinic today, his day had turned exhausting.

He sighed as he leaned back on his bed, dragging his hands over his face. Baptiste had woken up today expecting to take care of geriatrics and the occasional kid with a cold, not have to perform triage on a gravely wounded man. One hell of a day, and he didn’t even know where half of these people had even come from.

A knock on his door drew his attention, and he saw Lena standing at the door, a towel over her shoulder. “Hey, Baptiste,” she said, gingerly moving towards the bed.

“Hey, Lena,” Baptiste said wearily. “Why aren’t you out there with your friends?”

“Uh, well… Angela’s sort of upset at me right now, and… well. I don’t know. Mind if I sleep with you tonight?”

Baptiste shrugged, before patting the side of his bed. “Sure.”

Lena smiled, hopping on the bed and tossing the towel to the side. “Thanks, really. It means a lot to me, you know.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Baptiste turned off the light, the soft yellow glow of an old incandescent lightbulb replaced by the glow of the moon. Slowly, he began to close his eyes, ready to go to sleep.

“Baptiste?” Lena said, stirring next to him.

“Hmm?”

“I’m, uh… I’m sorry for dropping in on you like this today.”

He sighed, still keeping his eyes closed. “Like I said. Don’t mention it.”

“No, but I _have_ to,” she said. He heard the bedsprings creak and groan, was shaken by her moving. Baptiste opened his eyes to see her propping herself up, staring at him. “I haven’t talked to you for _years,_ not since Chicago.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “It’s okay, really.”

“It’s not!” Lena drew a sharp breath, muttering something as she recoiled at the sound of her own raised voice. “Baptiste, _please._ I can’t just… it’s not right for me to ignore you for this long and then just drop two wounded men on you like you’re some walk-in clinic.”

“You know that’s exactly what I’m doing in this village, right?”

Lena groaned, nodding. “Well, yeah but… you know what I’m saying.”

“I know. And I’m telling you _it’s okay._ Really, it is. Just…” Baptiste paused, sighing heavily and closing his eyes again. “I just really would like to sleep now, okay?”

He heard Lena flop back over on the bed, her turn to sigh in defeat now. “Alright. Goodnight, Baptiste.”

“Goodnight, Lena.”

* * *

_June 7th, 2011_

_Tortuga, Haiti_

_08:47:22_

Baptiste woke early once again, stretching as he got out of bed. The only benefit he had now was that he was at least back in Haiti, back in a place where he knew himself. Walking these streets, it was almost like he had raised these buildings himself, knew every brick that went into them. Price had explained to him back in India that the United States wanted his and Soap’s heads, primarily for the crime of murdering a high-ranking American officer.

The good thing was that if there was one thing Baptiste knew, it was how to run and keep under the radar. Moving from place to place with a wounded man was harder, but at least he was out of the worst of it and just needed to recover now. Lena made sure that if they needed to fly, they had a competent pilot, and even Dr. Ziegler abandoned her previous humanitarian duties to ensure Soap’s continued survival.

Granted, traveling with a group of misfits wasn’t exactly what Baptiste had in mind when he woke up that day in February. Too many cups of coffee and not enough sleep had made him weary, paranoid of everything that happened, but he was _home._ He could stop worrying, relax at least a little. He found Price in the living room, already awake and no doubt resisting the temptation to start the sort of exercises that Baptiste expected from a man in his line of work. Baptiste cradled a cup of coffee in his hands, sweetened with just enough sugar, setting it down on an end table as he sat down on the couch and turned the television on. May as well catch up on the news.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Price said quietly, trying not to wake Dr. Ziegler.

“Hmm?” Baptiste hummed as he took a sip of his coffee.

“You’re not good at lying.”

He froze in place, the hot coffee sliding down his throat as even the very act of swallowing seemed impossible to do. Finally, he gulped, placing the cup back on its plate as he pursed his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You can fool Tracer and Dr. Ziegler, but you can’t fool me, lad,” Price said, barely even glancing towards him. “I know you’re not part of the Haitian military.”

“Oh, you do? This coming from the man who got beat up in Afghanistan four months ago.”

Price sighed, wincing in pain from his battered body. “Haiti hasn’t had a military since 1995. So, either you made a mistake in your cover story, or you’re lying about where you served.”

Baptiste shook his head. “I don’t have a cover story. This is where I’m from. This island, these people… this is who I am.”

The other man hummed, nodding his head. “Nice story. Doesn’t answer much, though.”

“I respected it when you didn’t want to tell me what happened in Afghanistan. Respect that I don’t want to talk about this.”

The low droning of the newscaster began to fill the room as Price fell silent. Baptiste was more than happy to accept it – after all, it meant he could enjoy his coffee in peace now. The news was the same as always, nothing special. The world was still reeling in the aftermath of the massacre at Zakhaev International, with Overwatch still hunting down Talon. It was like nothing had even changed since the last time he had watched the news.

_“Uh, we’re… this has just been handed to us,”_ the newscaster said, a suddenly worried expression on her face. _“We’re getting unconfirmed reports of an explosion in Geneva at Overwatch headquarters-”_

Baptiste dropped his coffee, scrambling to wake Lena, who had opted to sleep in a reclining chair that night. She blinked lazily, wondering what was going on and she leaned up, while Price was doing the same thing for Dr. Ziegler. The two women muttered incoherently, before they looked to the television. Lena wore the same shocked expression that Baptiste had hoped he’d never have to see again.

“What the…” Lena muttered as she stared at the TV. “I… what happened?”

“Did she just say all Overwatch operatives are wanted criminals?” Dr. Ziegler asked, her voice wavering.

“Tortuga isn’t safe anymore,” Baptiste said. “You’re all Overwatch, yes? We need to go, _now.”_

Price groaned, standing tall. “Right. Where to?

Baptiste shook his head, sighing. “I don’t know. Anywhere. But not here.”

“We’ll follow you, Baptiste,” Lena said.

Behind the couch, Soap groaned. “Who the bloody hell’s Baptiste?”

* * *

From bad to worse, it seemed. Through scattered radio broadcasts, half-read newspaper articles, and the occasional 24/7 news station, Baptiste learned that not only had Overwatch been disgraced into disbandment, there was even a secret black ops side to it called Blackwatch. Evidence following the explosion at Overwatch’s headquarters revealed that Blackwatch had given Al-Asad not just the funding and training for his coup, but also sourced the nuclear weapon he used to kill thirty thousand American soldiers. Another wave of evidence showed too close an association with Talon for comfort. The claim had once been that Blackwatch agents were infiltrating Talon, but by the time of the bombing it was difficult to tell if they were merely undercover, or actually believed in Talon’s ideals.

Dr. Ziegler abandoned their escape about a year in, after Soap had stabilized and Baptiste could keep him alive on his own, intent on turning herself in. Lena still stood by their side, as did Price, neither one willing to leave Soap for even a second. Their trek to escape not just American justice, but INTERPOL took them practically across the world, using whatever money they had from Price’s skills with a gun and Baptiste’s medical knowledge to keep themselves alive taking odd jobs as mercenaries in Africa and Asia. Occasionally they passed by a familiar place, but only ever for a brief moment. As far as the world knew, they were dead.

Before he knew it, it was 2016 and the world had begun to forget about them, focused more on taking down Talon and trying to track down Overwatch members. They could finally slow down, if only for a moment, and Baptiste found himself leading his friends back to Haiti. His home still stood, as much as he didn’t believe it would be, and the people still seemed familiar. For now, at least.

“Home, sweet home,” he said, sighing as he walked up the steps. Soap, Lena, and Price had gone to the village for supplies, meaning he could finally have a moment to himself. Seemed that was lacking, lately. He stepped inside his house, sighing heavily. It was good to be back.

That warm welcome went away immediately when he saw two men in his living room, one with his arms folded and leaning against the wall, the other sitting on his couch.

“Good morning, Jean-Baptiste Augustin,” the man on the couch said in French.

Baptiste’s hand hovered over his pistol, but the grim look on the man leaning against the wall made him think better of it. “Well, you know who I am, but I don’t think I know you,” Baptiste said calmly, though his heart rate was anything but.

“I am Gustave Kateb, though most of my friends call me Doc. You can too, if you wish.”

“Well met, Doctor Kateb.”

Dr. Kateb stood up, clasping his hands behind his back. “Let us cut to the chase, yes? We know who you are. We know you are… shall we say, _friends_ with Captains Price, MacTavish and Oxton.”

“Perhaps I am,” Baptiste replied. “What of it?”

“We need your help finding Makarov.”

Baptiste scoffed, shaking his head. “Listen, I-”

“Please, listen to reason. You can’t sustain this life on the run forever. I’m coming to you as a courtesy for my friend Captain Price. I can help make sure people… _overlook,_ shall we say, the things you and your friends do to find Makarov.”

Baptiste sighed, heading to his kitchen and retrieving a cold bottle of water. “And why should I help you?”

“Because we can make your life very hard,” the man leaning against the wall said. “We’d rather not do that.”

“Price has already contacted me. We know what he plans to do,” Dr. Kateb said. “I just want to make sure you’re ready to help him, because if you don’t… well, suffice to say, it wouldn’t end very well for you.”

He shook his head, taking a drink of water. “Well, when you put it that way…”


	12. Mind the Gap

“Makarov is back on the grid,” Baptiste announced as Price and Soap returned.

Price wasted no time. “If he’s back on the grid, he wants people to take notice.”

“Where do we start hunting?” Soap said.

Baptiste pulled out a map, circling Sierra Leone. “Africa. Makarov’s been using a local paramilitary group to move shipments into Sierra Leone. From there, they go to Morocco, and into Spain.”

Price stared at the map as Baptiste outlined the key locations. “He’s moving north.”

“Right towards Her Majesty’s doorstep,” Soap concluded. “What’s the cargo?”

Baptiste shrugged. “I don’t know, but it’s important to him.”

“Then I want it,” Price declared.

* * *

_June 18th, 2016_

_Sierra Leone_

_18:27:39_

Baptiste rose out of the water in a dirty river, racking back the bolt on his AK-74 as water flowed out of it. Seemed alright. A little water wouldn’t cause too many issues – honestly, the loose tolerances were the best thing about this rifle. Could do about anything to it, and it’d still keep rolling.

“Tracer, we’re outside the village,” Price said as he too rose out of the water. Soap was just on Baptiste’s right, flicking water off his head as he cleared his rifle of water.

“Copy!” she said, chipper as ever. “I’ll pick you up in one hour!”

“Factory isn’t far from here,” Price informed them. “Makarov’s cargo should be there. Keep it silent.”

“Maintain a low profile,” Soap reminded Baptiste. “The militia’s all over this area.”

“Soap, try not to die this time,” Price retorted.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You worry about yourself, old man.”

Baptiste waded through waist-deep water, on the lookout for enemy militiamen as he advanced alongside Soap and Price. He heard the sounds of multiple vehicles on the road, a sure sign of movement. He remembered well Soap’s briefing on the triggermen around here – some sort of communist or socialist militia that’s been waging genocide for months unnoticed – or simply not cared about – by the world. It made him grind his teeth, made him want to _do _something to stop it, but he knew such a thing was impossible.

The river moved up a step, allowed them to get out of waist-deep water to trade it for ankle-deep as they neared a rickety old bridge spanning the river. Soft rain fell around them, masking the noise they made.

“Vehicles approaching,” Soap whispered.

“Get down.”

Baptiste found himself in cover next to Soap, hiding next to a rock near the edge of the river. Dirty white trucks moved over the bridge, joined by militiamen lazily wandering by alongside them. Each truck had either a heavy machine gun, or was jam-packed with men. The vehicles soon passed, and they began to move once more, ducking under a fallen tree.

Up next was the remains of a small hut, with two armed men piling up bodies in a burn pit. This must have been part of the genocide Soap talked about. Price and Soap wordlessly took the two men down, as they blocked the path to get closer to the village. Gunfire was nearby. Baptiste turned the corner to see a group of militiamen surrounding someone who was tied up, being doused with gasoline.

“They’re gonna torch the poor bastard,” Soap muttered.

“Let’s light them up before they light him up,” Price ordered.

Baptiste raised his rifle up, opening fire just as the man pouring the gasoline tipped the can upright. Soap and Price soon joined in, and within a few seconds, Baptiste counted four lives he had taken. _All in the name of protecting others,_ he told himself. That’s the best lie he could give right now. They moved past the scene of potential immolation towards a dirt road, demarcated only by an unsteady metal guardrail from the wilderness beyond it.

“Tangos up ahead,” Price said. “Hold your fire. There’s too many of them.”

They stopped near a group of tall, thin trees. Just ahead, it looked like an entire camp of militiamen, mostly at ease. A truck carrying more men rolled past, jostling the militia with each bump and shock. Two of them stood by a bridge, while a handful began to execute captured villagers.

“Don’t do anything _stupid,_ lads,” Price reminded them.

Baptiste gripped his rifle tightly, doing his best to take the Captain’s advice. Why wasn’t anyone _doing_ something about all this? Price signaled for them to get ready to move as the militia killed their last prisoner. Time to go. Baptiste followed closely behind Price and Soap, heading towards another road. Must be getting close to the village now.

“Get down, now!” Price ordered. Baptiste dived to the ground, in between Soap and Price’s boots as he heard two trucks rumble past them. Lot of activity today, apparently. Once the trucks passed, they began to move once more, heading towards another bridge. Militia must have built these for quick access across the tiny river.

“Drop them,” Price ordered, referring to another pair of bridge guards. Baptiste and Soap each fired a single round, killing the two men. Very hastily, they hid the bodies in an attempt to at least maintain their cover of stealth, shoving them under the bridge and moving along. The village was in sight now. Baptiste could see a chain-link fence mark the entrance to a shantytown, houses built out of spare sheet metal and junk walls.

“I see the factory,” Soap said. “Just up the road.”

“Right, Soap and I will advance,” Price said. “Baptiste, you’re on overwatch. Get on this tower and provide sniper support.”

“Will do,” Baptiste said, climbing up the tower and taking out his marksman’s rifle. Good view for most of the area. Lot of sightlines were blocked by the buildings, but he had a clear line on where Soap and Price would be going. He spotted two men approaching from their left, easily taking them down without a second thought. Seven men’s blood on his hands so far. Might be more by the time this day was over. Through his scope, Baptiste watched Soap and Price breach and clear the factory, disappearing inside.

“Clear,” Price reported.

“Clear? This place is bloody empty.”

“Tracer, the factory is a dead end. No sign of Makarov.”

“He might’ve moved to the militia’s headquarters in the center of town?” Lena replied. “S’about the only thing I can reckon, anyway.”

“We’re heading there now,” Price reported.

“We’ve got company!” Soap yelled. Baptiste watched a series of tracers shoot out from the right. Well, time to get a little more involved. He jumped off the tower, swapping back to his AK as he began to run to meet back up with Price and Soap. Ten killed by his hand now.

“What happened?” Baptiste asked as he ducked behind cover, dodging enemy bullets.

“Not sure,” Price said. “Must have been a patrol we missed. Push forward!”

Baptiste, Price and Soap surged forward, engaging with enemy militia as they worked their way through. Had to take a roundabout path to the center of town, especially now that they were under fire. They headed over hastily-built ladders, crumbling buildings, and tarp-covered awnings on their path to the center, all the while trading fire with the militia.

“I think they know we’re here,” Soap muttered as they continued.

“All that matters is Makarov’s cargo,” Price replied. “Keep moving!”

A technical approached, which Soap and Price easily took out. Militia was swarming them – all Baptiste could do to help was jump on the technical’s machine gun, shoving off the dead body of the previous controller. Targets began to appear left, right and center as bullets flew past him. How many did that make he had killed now? Twenty? Thirty? He couldn’t tell, and it troubled him.

An explosion rocked the truck, throwing Baptiste off. Before he knew it, their fire support was gone and Baptiste was scrambling back to his feet.

“They’ve got this area sighted for mortars!” Price yelled. “Move!”

“Don’t stop moving or they’ll dial in on us!” Soap shouted.

Baptiste followed Soap and Price through the madness, even as mortars rained down on them. Each shell rocked the earth, sending chunks of metal and wood everywhere, and occasionally showered them with dirt. Eventually, they managed to move out of the mortar’s range apparently, moving underneath a drainage pipe towards the center of town. Baptiste could feel it. They were getting close.

“Tracer, approaching the church now. And you’re sure the cargo will be there?”

“It’s the only place they could’ve moved it to,” Lena replied. “Either that, or it’s already on it’s way to Europe, I suppose.”

“Let’s hope she’s right,” Soap muttered.

They exited the drain pipe to a church courtyard, covered with a market and swarming with militia. Overhead, a helicopter flew, but it wasn’t Lena’s. This one was different.

“There’s the church!” Price yelled as he began firing.

Baptiste too joined in, settling on a nice, even number to assuage his own concerns at 35. The helicopter must have been there to pick up the cargo. They were out of time. The three worked in tandem to move forward, engaging enemy militia even as they worked to surround them until they reached the church doors. Price kicked the door in, with Soap lobbing a grenade right after. An explosion dusted the area, and Baptiste counted forty deaths on his hands by the time they cleared the church of hostiles.

They breached the door, where immediately a hyena latched itself to Baptiste’s arm. He pulled out his pistol, firing once in the hyena’s head to kill it and tossing the body off. Soap and Price killed the militiamen hovering around crates, just as the enemy helicopter dusted off. Despite Price emptying an entire magazine into it, the helicopter flew off unharmed with some sort of crate attached to it.

“Damn it!” Price yelled, emptying his pistol into an already dead man for good measure. “Tracer, the shipment is gone. We missed our window.”

“What about Makarov?”

“Must’ve done a runner. Just get us out of here.”

Soap moved over to the remaining crates, sighing as he threw them open. “Empty. What do you think Makarov was after?”

“We’ll ask the bastard when we find him,” Price muttered.

* * *

_June 19th, 2016_

_Somewhere over Africa_

_20:18:39_

Baptiste sighed as he leaned against the hard leather of Lena’s helicopter, trying to find a way to rest. Fighting through Sierra Leone had taken a lot out of him, and the fact he had lost track of the lives he had taken disturbed him far too much to let rest come easily. Of course, the lack of answers on Makarov made everything a bit harder to deal with, and Baptiste could feel the pressure on him coming from Price and Soap. After all, he had just presented himself as someone who could provide an inroad to finding Makarov, and here he was, forcing them to chase after ghosts.

“What’cha thinking about?” Lena asked, skillfully maneuvering the craft around to their next destination. At this point, Baptiste cared little about where the actual safehouse they were going to was. As long as it was away from chaos and war, he was alright with it.

“How much I’d like to sleep,” he replied, sighing heavily.

The noise of the engine stopped him from being able to hear anything Lena muttered in response, until she keyed her mic on again. “You know, we can hide from the world all we want, but… we really can’t hide from each other too much.”

“I know,” Baptiste said. “You want to talk about Chicago.”

“You’ve only been avoiding that conversation for five years, love,” Lena teased. He didn’t have to see her face to know she was smirking like she always did, the goofy look she always had when she was utilizing her masterful skills in the art of understatements.

“And you’ve been a bit busy flying us around the continent, so you’re not innocent either,” Baptiste shot back.

She laughed – it’d been too long since he had heard that – over the mic, no doubt smiling wide by now. “I know. Look, I get why you didn’t want to talk to me. I mean… what I did was pretty terrible.”

He sighed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Memories of that day in Chicago flooded back to him, image on image like beads on a rosary. Good times with friends seven years gone, back when he didn’t have much to worry about, and the world seemed wide open to a starry-eyed Baptiste. “Lena,” Baptiste finally said, “you don’t have to blame yourself, you know.”

“He was your _brother,”_ she hissed. “I… if I had driven better, I could have-”

“You need to stop beating yourself up over it,” Baptiste retorted. “I’ve accepted what happened. When will you, Lena?”

She was quiet for a time, and for a few minutes Baptiste thought maybe he had offended her by essentially telling her to just “Get over it.” The low sound of her mic keying on dispelled that idea. “Is that why you joined the Army, then? To get away from it? And that’s why I didn’t hear from you?”

Baptiste paused, a certain lump in his throat as he tried to figure out how to answer. On one hand… back then, after Chicago, he had been angry, lost, without direction. For him, it was easier to lose himself in alcohol and adrenaline than anything else, and he knew firsthand what that could do to someone if they let it control them. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “I… I don’t know. Seeing you, talking to you… it reminded me of that day too much. After a while, it was too much.”

Another pause. Usually, Baptiste considered himself much more diplomatic than this, always found a way to spin a positive, but tonight? It seemed like the only thing he could do was do and say the wrong thing. He wouldn’t dare tell Lena the truth about why he had stopped talking to her, even when she persisted in sending him letters and emails whenever she could find any inkling of him somewhere.

“I suppose that’s fair,” she said quietly. “I really missed talking to you, you know.”

“I know,” Baptiste replied. “I’m sorry. I should have reached out.”

“No, I mean… it’s alright, we’ve both got our own lives, right?” Lena said, a hint of cheer coming back to her voice. “Me with Overwatch, and you with… clinics in the middle of India…”

“Hey now,” Baptiste said, smirking. “I know it’s not glamorous, but it’s rewarding.”

“No, no, I get that,” she replied. “I guess… I don’t know, I always thought maybe one day I’d see you in Overwatch, you know? With as much as you like to help people?”

The smile on his face faded at the mention of Overwatch. The organization was always touchy for him, but… well, of course Lena would never have known that. How could she, when they hadn’t seen each other for years? He sighed again, readjusting himself as best he could in the seat and rolling on his side, hoping that the sight of the passing stars could help him sleep.

“Goodnight, Lena,” he said quietly, hoping that sleep would come soon.

* * *

_June 20th, 2016_

_Canary Wharf, London_

_05:31:35_

James “Smoke” Porter hadn’t had to deal with something this high-priority in a long time. Hell, back when he did, he was still mucking about with Captain Price. Felt like decades ago.

“Baseplate, we’re online,” Wallcroft said. “Mint on view.”

“Roger that, Bravo Six. There are multiple lorries in the docks marked ‘Charity Worldwide,’ at this time we believe they are targets.”

Smoke scoffed, checking his MP5’s magazine. “That’s a dodgy way of doing charity work.”

“Lorries are leaving the docks now.”

Smoke followed Wallcroft down the alleyway, heading towards the docks. They’d have to leg it to check this out in time. “Our source say what they were transporting?”

“Intel on this op shows the shipment came from High Value Targets overseas. Be advised, one lorry is still at the docks.”

“Why not get a Spectre in here and sink the whole bloody thing in the river?” Smoke asked.

“Too high profile, Bravo Six. Vulture’s birds will provide air cover for now.”

Wallcroft nodded, raising up his weapon. “Let’s just get this thing done and dusted.”

No resistance as they moved towards the dock gates. Smoke could see multiple contacts inside, more than a few of which had weapons on them. Looked like AKs from here.

“I count twelve hostiles,” Smoke said quietly. Didn’t look like they were alert. This should be easy. Wallcroft counted down, and Griffen cut the padlock to the gate. Through it, they charged through as Wallcroft called weapons free. Their air support began to hover, shining a spotlight on the lorry as they began to engage the hostiles. Were they speaking Russian? He couldn’t quite tell. Either way, the lethal dance of fire and maneuver ended just as quickly as it began with hostile contacts dispatched with relative ease.

“All clear?” Wallcroft shouted, tossing away an empty magazine.

“Clear!” Smoke called.

“Clear, boss!”

“Alright, set up a perimeter! Smoke, open those doors!”

Smoke moved to the lorry, still illuminated by the spotlight. He threw the doors open to find… absolutely nothing inside. Just an empty pallet and useless junk.

“Nothing in here,” he muttered.

“Baseplate,” Wallcroft said, immediately getting on the horn. “The lorry is empty. What’s the status on the rest of them?”

“Bravo Six, be advised, y-”

The sound of a rocket flying through the air filled Smoke’s ears, followed up by an explosion and a cascade of gunfire. Shooters had appeared on the catwalk on a nearby warehouse, forcing the team to take cover. “Contact!” Smoke shouted as he ducked behind the loading docks.

“Tangos on the catwalk!” Wallcroft said. “Vulture 2, sort them out!”

“Roger that, inbound and hot.”

The sound of twin miniguns filled the air as Vulture 2 headed over and began firing, filling the catwalk with lead and taking out a good majority of the gunners there. Another RPG flew out, narrowly missing their air support. With no further choice, Vulture 2 backed off as Smoke began to move forward and engage with targets on the ground.

Something was strange, though. They had begun running. Why would they do that? The team followed the tangos through a construction site, packed to the brim with pipes, equipment, and piles of dirt. This didn’t make sense to him. Eventually, the construction site led down, revealing an exposed part of the Underground.

“They’re falling back to the tube!” Smoke yelled.

“Baseplate, hostiles are leggin’ it back to the tube,” Wallcroft reported. “We’re pursuing on foot!”

“Copy that. Vulture 2, scout ahead and check stops. Find out where they’re headed.”

“Vulture 2 breaking away.”

The tangos began to jump into a nearby train, which soon began to pull away. Smoke climbed his way into a truck, which Griffen took control of in order to pursuit them. What was the plan here for them? He could see the tangos in the train, running about in it and switching cars. Must have had the train to themselves. Smoke began to fire on them, taking short, controlled bursts to ensure that no bullets went astray.

“Get alongside it!” Wallcroft shouted. Griffen did so, pulling their truck to the left. Just as he did, Smoke spotted a series of bright lights. “Incoming train! Go right, go right!”

“A little close there, mate!” Smoke yelled.

“Sod off!” Griffen exclaimed. “We’re still in one piece, aren’t we?”

“This line goes straight to Westminister!” Wallcroft said. “We have to stop this, now!”

They flew into a station, and Smoke had to hold his fire lest a stray shot hit a civilian. Bloody station was packed with them. The station soon passed, allowing Smoke to get back to firing on these bastards. Seemed like every time he knocked a few down, seven more came up to replace them.

“Vulture 2,” Wallcroft said as they escaped the tunnel. “Where the hell are you?!”

“Got your position, got the target. Inbound and hot.”

The twin miniguns opened up again, and from where he was, Smoke saw the front window spatter with blood. One of the shots must have done something truly bizarre, as the train now began to derail right in front of them. Griffen slammed on the brakes, avoiding incoming trains and trying not to get caught up in a catastrophic derail just ahead.

Once the train screeched to a halt, now a flaming wreck under the Westminister station, Smoke, Wallcroft and Griffen dismounted, rushing ahead. He could see the tangos heading out, some wounded and some not. These buggers didn’t know when to quit, did they?

“Bravo Six, what’s your status?”

“Train’s done in under Westminister,” Wallcroft reported as they ran. “Those bastards were using it as transport.”

“Be advised, the trucks are headed in your direction. Get topside and RV with Bravo Two.”

“Copy that.”

The three moved through an abandoned, evacuated Westminister station, with Russian filling the air. Time to give these lads a proper British welcome. First group of hostiles had been abandoned, left behind as they were heavily wounded. Still had guns – and therefore, were a threat. Up the stairs, more hostiles, this time with a bit more vigor in them than the last group. The confined space made it difficult to work.

“Baseplate! Where’s our backup?”

“Local police arriving on scene. Bravo 2 will be on station in five minutes.”

“Bollocks!” Smoke shouted as he reloaded. “Nothing takes five minutes!”

Despite the withering fire, the tangos began to retreat, heading up a second set of stairs. They were getting dangerously close to the top. One of them dropped a grenade to cover the retreat, holding up their pursuit. Once they had reached the top, Smoke leaped over ticket counters just in time to see Sledge and Thatcher arrive, leading a team to engage and arrest the tangos they had just been pursuing.

“Lorry’s almost here!” Sledge shouted. “Get topside!”

The three swung right, heading up the stairs to harsh sunlight. Was it morning already? When had that happened? Local police were already on the scene, waving off civilians as another team with Mute rolled in, dismounting from their vehicle and taking position near the barricade.

“Stack up at the barricade!” Wallcroft yelled.

Smoke, Mute, Wallcroft, Griffen and scores of other SAS operatives and Metropolitan police lined up at the barricade, checking magazines and flicking safeties off. The lorry turned the corner, tires squealing as it came, with a horde of police cars chasing after it.

“Weapons free!” someone shouted. All at once, the line of weapons sounded off, filling the van with bullets as it came careening towards them.

“Aim for that bloody driver!” Smoke yelled.

The truck continued to advance, turning hard and flipping onto its side, sliding towards them as they continued to pour lead into it. Smoke counted twice he had to reload.

“Hold your fire!” Wallcroft said. “All clear?”

“Clear!”

“Baseplate, the lorry’s down, we’re secure. What’s the status on the other ones?” No response. “Baseplate? Where are the lorries?!”

Off in the distance, Smoke heard explosions, watching what looked like noxious green gas rising up and mixing with black smoke in long, horrific tendrils. That was coming from King’s Row. This… this was just a decoy, wasn’t it?

Who the hell had used chemical weapons against London?


	13. Bag and Drag

It didn’t take long for news of the chemical attack on King’s Row to reach them. Lena felt particularly devastated, it being her home and all, and she practically wanted to take her helicopter and fly herself back to London to help out, even at her own risk. Price and Soap mourned the loss of dozens of reported SAS operatives that had perished attempting to contain the trucks, and while Baptiste did not feel London’s immediate loss, he understood the pain within.

Price had a different plan to Lena, though. Instead of rushing to aid, he picked up the phone. It took a while, what with having to go through varying levels of intelligence officers and whatnot, but eventually Price did manage to find the man he must have been looking for, MacMillan. Price only called him an “old friend” from before.

“Identify yourself,” the thick Scottish accent on the phone said.

“Mac,” Price said quite simply. “It’s John.”

The man on the other side of the line sighed wearily. “We put a lot of names on the clock tower this week, lad.”

“It was Makarov. The bastard slipped through my fingers in Sierra Leone. What does MI6 know?”

MacMillan hesitated, a tense breath of air passing through the speaker as Baptiste listened in. “You’re on everyone’s shit-list, John. There’s no way I could give you clearance.”

“Don’t give me that!” Price yelled, suddenly angry as his face contorted in rage. “You still owe me for Pripyat. I’m calling it in.”

“Easy, son,” MacMillan said. Another pensive sigh. “Alright. We’ve traced the delivery freighter to an outfit in Bosaso, Somalia. It’s run by a nasty piece of work named Waraabe. My hands are full with the bleeding at home, so you’re on your own. Good hunting.”

* * *

Two weeks later, not only had they headed to Somalia to continue on the hunt for Makarov to kill him, but the compound had been extensively reconnoitered and every note possible had been taken by Soap and Price, which now culminated in the plan to assault it.

“What’s the security look like?” Soap asked, for quite possibly the hundredth time.

“Strictly second division,” Price said. “Local triggermen guard the compound.”

“We’ll stick out like bollocks on a dog. Stealth’s not an option.”

“Then we’ll just have to kick in the front door.”

* * *

_June 26th, 2016_

_Bosaso, Somalia_

_09:30:20_

They had recruited the assistance of a local rival militia, promising whatever goods were in Waraabe’s compound – gold, weapons, illegal drugs – in exchange for helping them to knock down his defenses. Lena had found a competent one to act as a gunner for a new gunship she had found, an old Hind sourced from Ethiopia and outfitted with enough weaponry to level the place twice over. Price was in the driver’s seat of a truck, driving in tandem with three other trucks filled to the brim with local gunners all with a vengeance against Waraabe, cheering loudly as they approached.

“Just move quickly and we can snag Waraabe before he bolts,” Price said. Baptiste looked to the right as he stood up, AK-74 in hand, watching a massive sandstorm begin to roll in.

“The sandstorm’s moving in fast!” Soap yelled. “We only have one shot at this!”

“Bravo Team, take point through the gate,” Price said into his radio.

One of the other trucks sped up as a militiaman stood tall, firing an old Russian machine gun at the gate. Baptiste could see Waraabe’s men trying to close said gate, but the rapidly approaching vehicles made them think twice.

“Lena,” Baptiste said, “soften them up!”

“Roger that, rockets away,” Lena replied, firing off two heavy rockets at the gate. The massive metal gate twisted as it was rocked off its hinges, thrown off completely as the vehicles collectively slammed into it. In an instant, the four vehicles had stopped and they all began to dismount, firing and maneuvering with each other in a deadly dance that demanded precision, lest someone find themselves with a bullet in their head.

“Slot these bastards fast!” Soap shouted as they moved across open ground to cover near some docks. An alarm blared in Baptiste’s head as he traded shots with Waraabe’s men. An all-too-familiar noise soon filled his ears – mortar.

“They’re targeting us with mortars!” Baptiste shouted.

“Sweep under the docks! Our friends will keep them busy, we have to reach Waraabe!”

Baptiste followed Soap under the docks, checking his ammo levels. So far, he hadn’t counted any deaths by his hand, but he had emptied about half his magazine just suppressing targets.

“Tracer, we need some air support,” Soap called out.

“On it! Making my way through!”

Lena’s gunship passed by, its guns blazing as she flew over them with her assistant gunner firing on targets. The explosive rounds shook the ground and blasted off chunks of concrete from the tall buildings around them, and Baptiste was sure he heard a truck explode somewhere. Either way, the gun run allowed them to move up as she reported she was setting herself up for another pass.

“Lena, prepare for exfil,” Baptiste said as they neared the building. “We’re preparing to breach now.”

“Got it!”

Price and Soap kicked in the large wooden doors to Waraabe’s safehouse, decorated with ornate Persian rugs, silk curtains, and dotted with bottles all over the tables. Someone had a football game on upstairs, which had apparently been abandoned once the shooting started.

“Price, possible visual on Waraabe on the second floor balcony,” Lena reported.

“Copy that,” Price said, gesturing for them to follow him up the stairs. Waraabe’s office wasn’t too far ahead. Six gunmen protected him, each one easily dispatched by the three as they charged into an atrium. Soap locked into melee with one of the gunners with a bayonet, but Soap expertly dodged the thrust and used the man’s own momentum to throw him off the balcony as Baptiste counted two kills to his rifle.

The three stacked up on the entrance to Waraabe’s office, unfolding a breaching charge and counting down. Five more shooters inside, each one taken out with a few expertly-placed shots from their rifles. Four kills now. Waraabe caught a bullet to the leg, forcing him to fall and crash into a pile of gun cases as he began to yell and scream, clutching his leg in pain.

“Gas masks on,” Price said. Baptiste sighed, pulling his gas mask over his face. This part of the plan had made him uneasy from the word go. Soap tossed over a small canister to Price, who caught it easily and held it in front of Waraabe’s face. “Look familiar?”

“No! No!” Waraabe shouted. “Please!”

Price opened the canister, full of the same gas used on the chemical attack in King’s Row and tossed it into the center of the room, allowing it to fill the air with noxious smoke. He then dangled a gas mask in front of Waraabe. “Where’s Makarov? Tell me and it’s yours.”

Waraabe reached for the gas mask, but due to his leg, couldn’t reach. “Our contact was a man named Volk!” he shouted. “We never met Makarov!”

Soap, apparently displeased with this answer, stomped over and dug his heel into Waraabe’s wound. Baptiste winced, wanted to at least get him off, but he knew how this was going to end. “Where’s Volk?” Soap demanded. “Time’s running out, mate.”

“Paris!” Waraabe yelled in between screams of pain. “He oversaw the delivery in Paris!”

Price and Soap exchanged a glance, nodding. Soap stepped off Waraabe, heading out the door. Price, meanwhile, tossed the gas mask to Waraabe. “Right, then,” he said, pulling out his pistol and aiming it at Waraabe. “This is for the boys at Hereford.”

“Wait!” Waraabe protested. His cries were cut short by a single gunshot, barely even able to try to get the gas mask on. Baptiste sighed heavily as he and Price exited Waraabe’s office. Such a pointless execution. Who knew if his intel was even good?

“Tracer,” Price said, “Waraabe broke. We have what we need. Ready for exfil?”

“Almost there! The LZ looks clear, but that sandstorm’s moving in fast!”

“We see it. Meet you in 20 seconds.”

Baptiste looked out as he took off his gas mask. The sandstorm was overwhelming, clearly blowing towards the city in a massive wave, almost like watching a typhoon envelop the horizon. The militia they had hired didn’t seem to care much about looting Waraabe’s compound, more focused on getting out.

“That storm is massive,” Soap muttered as they began to head for the LZ.

“Last thing we need is to get caught in that. Let’s move.”

“Do you think Waraabe was telling the truth about Volk?” Baptiste asked.

“He was telling the truth,” Price said. “I’d bet Makarov’s life on it.”

They rounded a corner to head to Lena’s new Hind, with a handful of the militia in tow. All looked good. Baptiste heard Price start to talk about their next step, began to calm his excited heart rate, but didn’t much pay attention to it. Out of nowhere, a rifle sounded off, and one of the militiamen ahead of him fell over, dead.

“Sniper!” Soap yelled. Baptiste looked up to spot militia appearing on the rooftops – not friendly. Must have been Waraabe’s men reinforcing him, even in death. It was an ambush.

“Lena,” Baptiste shouted. “Get out of here!”

“Meet us at the secondary LZ!” Price yelled.

“The sandstorm’s coming in fast,” Lena muttered. “I won’t be able to touch down when it hits!”

“Just be there!” Baptiste said, taking cover and returning fire. Seven killed. He shot back and focused only on being covered enough to keep moving, ducking in between cinderblock walls and solid-looking buildings even as the ambush ramped up in intensity.

“Price,” Lena said, her voice seeped with panic. “The winds are getting stronger!”

Baptiste found himself ignoring the shouts from Soap and Price as they ran through the outskirts of town, approaching a market that specifically forbade them from bringing weapons in. Well, they were going to be breaking _that_ today.

“Tracer, the LZ is in sight,” Price reported, even as the winds broke apart an under-construction building.

“Move fast! I don’t know how much longer I can fly in this storm!”

Fire came from the building, and from nearly every corner of the market as they approached. Time to clear. Baptiste, Soap and Price fought not just the wind and sand, but enemy bullets as well as they systematically worked through each floor.

“Alright, I’m starting my approach,” Lena said uneasily.

“We’ll meet you at the top floor!” Baptiste answered. Twelve kills now. They reached the roof not much worse for wear, save for the sandstorm that was nearly right on top of them. Even as they stood on the roof, wondering where Lena’s helicopter was, they were under fire from opposing rooftops with little options for cover. Baptiste fired back as much as he could, hearing Lena’s rocket pods and gun make quick work of anyone foolish enough to stand up.

He saw a rocket trail pour out, but not from Lena’s gunship. This went from a rooftop to the air, finally slamming right into Lena’s helicopter. It began to spiral out of control.

“I’m hit!” she shouted.

“She’s going down!” Baptiste yelled.

“We’ve gotta get off this roof! Use the ropes!” Price began to run towards the edge, and Baptiste followed suit. He, Soap and Price grabbed a convenient rope, using a very unsafe fast-rope method to get to the bottom as the sandstorm enveloped them whole and Lena’s helicopter spun overhead, the blades cutting through the air as thick as could be and sending chunks of metal down with it. The second he got on solid ground, he squinted to try and track Lena’s helicopter as it fell out of the sky.

“Lena?” he asked over the radio, to which he was met with silence. “Lena?! Do you copy?!”

“What the bloody hell do we do now?” Soap asked.

“We go get our bloody pilot and get the hell out of here,” Price replied. “Let’s go!”

The sandstorm made trying to track the wreck much, much harder. Soap complained about not being able to see two feet in front of him as Baptiste pulled a bandanna up to his face, preventing sand from entering his mouth and nose. They moved through streets now turned unfamiliar from the overwhelming sandstorm, mostly following confused enemy militiamen who apparently found Lena’s helicopter.

They found the wreckage in a small corner, flanked by militia who didn’t look happy to see her. Baptiste, Soap and Price engaged them in short order before they could figure out how to open the canopy, and almost instantly when he had added twenty men to his kill count, Baptiste rushed over to Lena. Some of them had arrived in trucks – they’d have to requisition them for their own use to get Lena out.

“Lena!” Baptiste shouted. “Lena! Are you alright?”

She coughed as he lifted her out of the helicopter, allowing herself to be moved into a fireman’s carry. “I’m fine! My leg’s buggered, though!”

“I’ll take that over _dead!”_Baptiste retorted, carrying her to a truck and practically shoving her in the seat. Soap took the wheel as Baptiste began a field exam, trying to figure out what else had been injured that maybe Lena wasn’t aware of.

“So, if Volk’s in Paris,” Soap muttered as they began to speed off, “how are _we_ getting there?”

Price scoffed. “We’re not. But I know who can.”

* * *

“Caller, please authenticate.”

“Access code Black Viking. Get me a secure line to asset Coyote 1-1.”

“Price, thank you for the tip on Kingfish. I hope you know Marianne has a kill/capture order on your head.”

“Tell them to join the bloody queue. Makarov’s got a bomb-maker, Volk, in Paris. We need to act before he bolts, but I can’t make the window. You’re the only one I trust with this.”

“Understood. We’re on it, Price.”

* * *

_June 27th, 2016_

_Paris, France_

_14:10:05_

Gustave Kateb took a deep breath, normalizing his breathing as their van neared the target location. Their high-value individual today was Viktor “Volk” Khristenko, a man born in the town of Dubovka on the banks of the Volga River. Judging from surveillance pictures, he was not a man who shied away from good food and wine, and his status as a CEO of Fregata Industries made him the perfect man to oversee a shipment of chemicals and send the bombs out to London. He was he keystone for finding Makarov, knowing what he was going to do next.

“Coyote 1-1, be advised, there’s a lot of civilian activity out there today. We need to be careful.”

Gustave nodded, keying his radio on. “Understood. Do we have a sweep on the area?”

“Yes, KEPLER showed no signs of activity in the target location.”

“Excellent. My team is coming in now.”

They headed down the Champs-Élysées, turning to a side street without any alarm from the surrounding people. Gustave considered that one benefit of having an unmarked white armored van at their disposal. He could see plainsclothes GIGN members ahead of them, waving people off. Might have been too early, if Volk looked outside, he might see the ruckus and bolt.

Their SUV slowed down, stopping as Emmanuelle “Twitch” Pichon and Gilles “Montagne” Touré stepped out of the van, doors opening and slamming shut in short order as weapons were slung up – and in Montagne’s case, he lifted up his massive 1980s-era riot shield, covered in scars from previous deployments and “situations” as Montagne loved to term them. Either way, it was unmistakable now that GIGN was on the scene.

“What do we know?” Gustave said as he approached the perimeter.

“Volk is on the second floor, but we’re worried about possible IEDs. Intel says he tends to walk around with his hand in his pocket, we think he might have a dead-man’s switch.”

Gustave turned to look at Twitch, who was already deploying one of her drones. The silent little two-wheeled device, outfitted with a taser for precision takedowns, zipped away as she knelt down, maneuvering it through the building. “No IEDs inside,” she reported. “Looks like a lighter, maybe? I can’t tell.”

“We’ve surrounded the area, right?” Montagne asked. “He shouldn’t have anywhere to go.”

“Yes and no,” the leader of the perimeter team said. “We had some strange EMF activity on the Champs-Élysées when we arrived, so we’re waiting on EOD to arrive.”

“That’ll take forever,” Gustave said, shaking his head. “We need to go in and grab him before he can make a bomb. He may still have components to make a chemical weapon.”

The other man shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. We’re not going in without EOD clearing the area.”

He sighed, turning away to key his radio on. “Command, this is Coyote 1-1, how long until EOD arrives, over?”

“Uh, wait one on that, Coyote 1-1.”

Gustave pursed his lips. He hated this game of waiting. Volk wasn’t blind – he had to have known that they were on to him now. Any single slip, and he could be gone.

“Coyote 1-1, Command here. EOD will be on-site in three minutes.”

“Understood, thank you, Command.” Gustave turned now to look at the building as Twitch continued to patrol with her drone, checking for possible devices and other nasty surprises. The building, like many others in the 8th arrondissement, was packed in tightly with its neighbors. He could only fathom two exits, the front door – which they were at right now, or a rear exit on the other side. There was little to do but wait for EOD to show up, as time ticked away and Volk no doubt formulated a plan to escape and kill as many GIGN operatives as possible.

The minutes passed by quickly, followed by another half-hour of waiting as EOD cleared the scene. Gustave had Twitch monitor Volk constantly with her drone, and so far he hadn’t spotted it or even reacted to it. In fact, Volk acted almost like he didn’t care about them out here, only occasionally looking out the window or shuffling papers around. He didn’t much act like a man who felt himself in danger, and that concerned Gustave. What was he planning?

“All teams, this is Bishop 2-1. We’ve finished our sweep, meet at perimeter, over.”

Gustave sighed, slinging his MP5 to the side as he headed over. What could they want now? He met the EOD team leader and perimeter team leader near the edge of said perimeter, just outside Volk’s building.

“Well, I’d say good news and bad news, but all I have is bad news,” Bishop 2-1 said, taking his helmet off. “We’ve detected bombs on the Champs-Élysées.”

“That doesn’t seem too bad,” Gustave said, shrugging. “Why not get rid of them? That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“No, you don’t understand. They’re _all over_ the Champs-Élysées. And not on the ground, either, they’re in the catacombs.”

Gustave furrowed his brow, arching an eyebrow at Bishop 2-1. “I don’t think I heard you right, because -”

“I know what I said. Volk must have planted them sometime in the past month, I don’t know. We think the detonator on him is the trigger for it, if he pushes that button-”

“Then the entire avenue goes down,” Gustave finished, sighing. “Great. Alright, leave it to us. We’ll figure out a way to take him down and get what we need. Work on those bombs, yes?”

Gustave headed back to his team, briefing them on the situation and formulating a new plan. He and Montagne could enter the building with other GIGN operatives as backup, initiate a breach with Twitch as backup. To ensure that he couldn’t use his detonator, Twitch would use her drone’s taser on him the second they breached, allowing them time to flood in and take him down, put Volk in handcuffs. If they moved as quickly as they always practiced initial breaches, this would be fast.

“For Rook,” Montagne said as they stacked up.

“For Rook,” Gustave repeated quietly.

And thus, with Montagne leading the way with his shield, the team moved in, rushing up beautiful wood stairs with carefully crafted railings, stomping through hallways with legendary art, and planting a breaching charge on a door that would see its final knock today. Twitch counted down, upon which at zero she tased Volk and the charge went off. In theory, at least. The breaching charge worked as it did, but almost immediately Twitch complained that Volk didn’t even react to the taser, and as they entered the room, Gustave watched Volk fire a large-caliber pistol at them as he began to run.

He apparently had a secret compartment that recon and Twitch’s drone had not discovered, which Volk ran through. No detonations yet – thankfully – as Gustave began to chase after him. Montagne opted to hit the streets once more as reports began to flood in that other teams were surrounding the building’s exits. Gustave started to think Volk had more than two exits after all. The narrow brick passageways he chased Volk through felt positively claustrophobic, like the old alleys in the corner of Paris he used to call home as a child.

Gustave reported his position, moving away from the entrances, a move which apparently prompted Twitch and Montagne to get back in their armored SUV and begin driving to cut off a nebulous approach that Volk had begun to take. Gustave wasn’t even sure which side of the street they’d even be coming out on. His sense of direction had been spun around like a dreidel, and at this point he scarcely knew which way was even up.

Eventually, Volk broke the surface, with Gustave in hot pursuit. The harsh sunlight nearly blinded him, but he could clearly see Volk jumping into an old Renault hatchback. He slowed down, his steps suddenly heavy as he began to catch his breath. How long had they run through Paris’s underground? No time to rest, though – Twitch and Montagne were right there, pulling up in their vehicle as Twitch threw open the door. “Get in!” she yelled. Gustave jumped in, rolling down the window so he could attempt to shoot out Volk’s tires, end this pursuit early.

Montagne was relaying their position to command, updating them on each turn they took as Paris police mobilized to block off roads and join in the vehicle chase. Volk’s erratic and downright dangerous driving took him to the Seine River, speeding across Pont Alexandre III and followed up by a hard right turn into rush-hour traffic on Quai d’Orsay. He dodged and weaved in between commuter cars and buses alike. There was little Gustave could do to stop it at this point, as he couldn’t risk firing a single shot with all the civilians around. Where was the Parisian police?

Roadblock ahead. Volk must have seen it, swinging onto Avenue Rapp and then turning at the university. What in the world was his plan? Twitch was in his ear, screaming that they had to take Volk out, but Gustave still couldn’t find an opportunity.

“I have an idea!” Montagne shouted.

“Just do it!” Gustave found himself screaming back.

Volk turned right again, but Montagne ignored the turn, speeding straight past it. Gustave almost asked him what the hell he was doing, until the realization hit him. No chance of stopping him with bullets or an immobilization maneuver. Montagne knew exactly what he was doing.

Another team reported Volk was on Quai Branly. Montagne turned right, zooming down the small avenue towards the end of the road, right towards the Seine. Within a second, Volk’s tiny blue car appeared, and with zero hesitation Montagne slammed right into the side. Gustave watched the diminutive Renault roll and flip as it came to a crashing halt just at the end of the quay, teetering over the railing. Gustave, Montagne and Twitch exited the SUV almost immediately, each one drawing their weapons on Volk.

“Command, this is Coyote 1-1,” Gustave reported. “We have the target, I repeat, the target is in custody.”


	14. Blood Brothers

“Did our man talk?”

“They always talk,” Doc said. “We have names, dates, locations. Volk gave us everything, even Fregata. It seems your hunch was right, Captain.”

“Makarov’s making friends.”

“He’s meeting his top advisors six hours from now. Location is the Hotel Lustig in Prague. It’s in the center of the city, near the old square,” Doc informed them. “We have groups assigned to this, but I don’t think they’ll make it in time, but… well, you’re close.”

“Very. I’ll contact you when it’s done.”

* * *

_June 27th, 2016_

_Prague, Czech Republic_

_21:01:33_

Baptiste and Soap, nestled in a corner of the roof under renovation, lie in wait for Makarov and his convoy of inner circle members. Price himself had infiltrated the hotel, securing the roof from prying eyes and ensuring he could drop down to the board room once they needed him to confirm the kill and essentially slaughter the rest of Makarov’s men and allies. After all, Price of all people didn’t want a repeat of Pripyat.

“Which vehicle will they be in?” Soap asked as Baptiste loaded the rifle’s magazine.

“They constantly rotate for security. We won’t know until he steps out.”

Soap turned his head, pausing for a second as he looked over Baptiste curiously. “You seem to know a lot about Makarov.”

“Alpha One,” Price’s voice said, saving Baptiste from having to answer. “Radio check, over.”

“Bravo One, copy. We’re dug in with line of sight.”

“Good. What do you see?”

Soap scoffed, shaking his head. “Bugger-all, mate. Looks like Makarov’s late to his own funeral.”

“Sit tight until we can get a clean shot. Then you can put as many rounds in him as you like.”

“It’ll only take one.”

Baptiste sighed as he loaded the magazine into the rifle, pushing the bolt forward to chamber a round. The night sky was drowned out by the bright lights of the hotel and the streetlights, almost made him miss the stars of Africa and Haiti, but only for a moment. There was far more grim work at hand to be done here.

“Heads up,” Price reported. “Makarov’s convoy is arriving now.”

“I see it,” Soap replied. “Four armored vehicles. No sign of Makarov yet.”

Baptiste took a deep breath, stretching out his fingers as he gripped the rifle’s stock. He was _this close_ to taking out a man who had taken so much from him. If only he could see through these vehicles…

“They’re stopping in front of the hotel,” Soap reported.

“Do you see him?”

Makarov rolled down the window – third vehicle, rear seat. There he was. It’d be so easy, just one pound of pressure, and then Makarov would be dead. One final life on his kill count. “Third vehicle, rear seat,” Baptiste said.

Makarov just sat there, speaking in Russian to one of his men. He poked his head out, glancing around and – for a split second – looked almost right at himself and Soap.

“Shite,” Soap muttered. “I think he’s looking right at us.”

“Easy. Just sit tight,” Price reminded them.

The window soon went up, and the convoy of vehicles drove into the hotel’s underground parking bay. Time to kick this off. The meeting was supposed to take place soon – with any luck, in the next fifteen minutes, they’d be seeing Makarov and his top men going into the conference room.

Baptiste became acutely aware of his breathing, suddenly intense and unregulated. He focused on calming himself down. An unsteady scope wouldn’t help when the time came to pull the trigger. Any mistake, and he’d lose his chance to end this long war. Minutes began to fly by, until the prerequisite fifteen minutes passed with no sign of Makarov.

“Where the hell is he?” Soap asked.

“Don’t know. We wait,” Price said.

Static began to fill Baptiste’s ears. What the hell was going on?

“Captain Price,” Makarov said. Baptiste’s blood ran cold. How the hell had he caught wind of their plan? “Ад ждёт тебя.”

He heard beeping coming from Price’s headset as Soap warned him to get out. An explosion rocked the hotel’s roof, scattering the few birds that remained in the area. Baptiste took his head away from the scope to try and get a visual, but to no avail. The roof’s tower had been consumed by the explosion.

“Baptiste, my friend,” Makarov said as a beeping began to fill their own hideout. “You should never have come here.”

“What the hell’s he talking about?!” Soap demanded.

Just as the two realized what was happening, Soap shoved him out, trying to follow behind. Another explosion destroyed the church roof they had been squatting in as Baptiste fell to the ground, helpless as he watched debris fly and fall around them. The church bell rang as it was rocked loose from its foundations, and they began to roll off the roof and onto scaffolding that was just below them. Baptiste fell head over heels, constantly turning and tumbling as he fell for what felt like forever on his journey to the ground. As he hit Prague’s cobblestone streets, his head began to spin as a ringing noise consumed his ears, weakly breathing as he tried to roll over. He looked over to see Soap buried in rubble, and as his vision returned, he heard sirens. Must be Czech police.

Before he could comprehend anything, he saw Price – despite all odds, come to think of it – approach them, shouting Soap’s name as he threw the rubble off his friend. He rolled Soap over, far-away words about how he was alright, and then Price turned his attention to Baptiste, dragging him off his back and onto his feet. “Baptiste!” Price yelled. “Get him up! We have to move, _now!”_

Shakily, Baptiste did as he was told, even as his body protested against the very act. They ran through Prague’s darkened alleyways and streets to a nebulous destination.

“Baptiste…” Soap muttered weakly. “Makarov said…”

He shoved the words out, ignored them as they weaved in between the alleys and abandoned dumpsters. Where was Price leading them? He had no idea. At one point, Soap stumbled, and Price took over carrying him. The entire time, Soap insisted he was fine, despite his wheezing breaths and labored gasps for air plainly telling Baptiste he was anything _but._

“Just patch me up…” Soap groaned in between dashes across roads. “Get me back in this…”

Price eventually led them to another alleyway, lit by neon signs and shocked Czech civilians. Soap now began to worry about Lena, saying they just needed her to come get them, then it’d be alright. Price handed off handling Soap to Baptiste as he kicked in the door to a back alley tattoo parlor, apparently abandoned at this time of night. Where did Price get the idea to take them here? In a panic, he cleared the table off and yelled at Baptiste to get Soap on it.

“Help him, Baptiste!” Price shouted, doing what he could from his side. Baptiste moved to help, watching Soap’s blood pour out on the table. Not good. This was a far cry from the living room Baptiste had last treated Soap from, and this wound was far, _far_ more serious. He didn’t dare tell Price that he didn’t believe Soap would make it out of this one.

“Price…” Soap muttered. “Baptiste…”

“Not now, son,” Price replied, panic in his voice. “Just rest.”

“Price, you need to know,” Soap replied, grabbing Price’s collar and pulling him close. Price stared back at Soap as he used his last ounces of strength to hold his head up. “Makarov… knows… Baptiste.”

Soap’s head fell back onto the table, suddenly lifeless. Baptiste didn’t need to take vital signs to know – Captain John “Soap” MacTavish had died. Baptiste released his pressure on Soap’s wound, stepping back. There was _nothing_ he could do now. Price… Price reacted as he expected, denying that he had just seen his friend and comrade-in-arms die right in front of him. He shook Soap’s body madly, pleaded with him to open his eyes one last time, even as Soap’s limp body rejected his cries for help. With a heavy, heaving shake of his shoulders, Price took out an M1911 and laid it on Soap’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Price said quietly, taking a journal out from one of Soap’s pockets. “Baptiste, go on ahead out the back.”

Baptiste stood there for a few moments, unsure how to react to this. Price had _just learned_ Baptiste’s secret, the truth that he had been hiding for six years. Why… why was he so calm about it? Why did he act like it didn’t matter? Baptiste shook his head, going over to the door Price pointed out and opening it. Price caught the door at the apex of its opening, sending a fist right to Baptiste’s face as he turned. Baptiste fell again, down a set of concrete stairs to the bottom of an alleyway.

He looked up, clutching his jaw in pain, spotting Price descending the stairs as the lonely lights that hung down lit Price’s hat up, casting a dark shadow over his face.

“Soap trusted you,” Price said, pulling out another pistol, racking the slide back. “I thought I could too.”

He continue to advance towards Baptiste, and for the first time in six years, Baptiste felt like his life was under threat once again. All at once, he felt like a kid from Haiti, scared and alone in the world with nobody to help him as the world closed in, ready to take his life away.

“So _why_ in the _bloody hell_ does Makarov know you?!” Price demanded, holding the pistol to his face.

And so, with nothing else to say, he explained. Baptiste had been young and patriotic when he met Makarov, joined Talon. He had been asked to join the team going to Pripyat to oversee the weapons deal, had watched Zakhaev’s arm get blown off by an unknown sniper. Baptiste had taken cover when the shooting started, and Zakhaev had sought refuge in their jeep. Makarov drove, getting them the hell out of there and allowing Zakhaev to survive.

He had never forgotten that, and rewarded them with power. But, power corrupted. Makarov had been the one to give the order to detonate the nuke in Saudi Arabia, had overseen transfers between the shadowy organization that got them the bomb and ensured it would be in the right place to extinguish thirty thousand souls in the blink of an eye. Makarov had wanted more, thought Talon was too restricted, too moral for him. As he saw the madness Makarov envelop himself with, Baptiste couldn’t justify the lies he had to tell himself anymore. He couldn’t stand taking lives anymore, which is why he had left Talon, left Makarov behind, and changed career paths to helping people regardless of nationality, background, wealth. After Talon… helping instead of killing seemed like the best bet.

Price, having listened to Baptiste’s story this entire time with a gun to his head, narrowed his eyes. After several long, tense moments, he withdrew the pistol. “Alright, Baptiste,” Price said slowly. “You’ve bought yourself some time. For now.”

* * *

Price couldn’t help but think of Hereford. In that city, there stood a clock tower where the names of the dead are inscribed, members of the SAS who were killed in service. He remembered the way it was first described to him when he joined the SAS – we try to honor their deeds even as their faces fade from our memory. Those memories are all they had left, when the bastards have taken everything else.

“What happened?” MacMillan asked.

“He killed Soap,” Price said simply. “He’s gone, Mac.”

MacMillan sighed deeply, no doubt feeling the pain himself. “What do you need from me, son?”

“A location. Our Haitian says Makarov has a hideout he hung out at in the Middle East. Place ring any bells?”

“Aye. I’ll get the info to you in ten minutes. It’s in the United Arab Emirates. What’s this you’re sending me?”

“Equipment list.”

“That’s a lot of hardware, John. What do you plan on doing?”

“What you taught me to do. Kill them all.”

* * *

Tracer met them at the outskirts of Prague, having already received word to come and pick them up. Price had not mentioned Soap’s passing to her, preferring to tell her in person, and hopefully get a chance to talk to her in private about her “friend” Baptiste. She touched down in a much more Western helicopter, jumping out the door to meet with with a wide smile on her face.

“Hiya!” she shouted above the sound of the rotors. “How’d it go in… Prague?” Her smile faded, twisting in confused as she blinked, looking among them. Price watched her silently count them off, obviously noticing the missing piece. “Wh-where’s Soap?” she asked, confused.

Baptiste sighed, shaking his head as he walked over to her. “Lena, I…”

“He’s gone,” Price said coldly. “We need to go to the UAE.”

“Wait, he’s – what?” Tracer asked. “I… th-that can’t be right! No, really, you’re taking the piss, right, he’s not-”

“Lena, please,” Baptiste said, grabbing her shoulders and staring into her eyes. “He’s gone.”

Tracer shook her head, shoved Baptiste away as she took a few steps back. “No, you’re wrong! He’ll meet us later, right? He’s… he’s resilient, you know!”

Baptiste sighed, hanging his head low as he walked towards the helicopter, defeated. “It’s like Chicago all over again,” he muttered.

She fell to the ground, collapsing on her knees as Price saw tears form in her eyes. Sighing, he knelt down next to her, putting a hand on her shoulder in a vain attempt to comfort her. “I’m sorry. We did all we could.”

Tracer immediately swatted his hand away, staring up at him with anger-filled, glassy eyes. “You just… do you even _care_, Price? You said he was dead just as easy as telling me it was raining.”

Price sighed, bowing his head. “I do care. Believe me, Tracer, I care more than anyone. But right now? I know where Makarov is, and I can kill him. We can make damn sure he pays for what he did to Soap.”

“I just…” Tracer muttered, burying her face in her hands. “Give me a minute, alright? I… I’ve gotta process this.”

Price nodded, standing up and headed to Tracer’s waiting helicopter, settling in next to Baptiste. He had his arms folded, barely even looking at Price as he climbed in. Eventually, Tracer’s sobs faded out, and he heard her take her seat in the cockpit, warming up the engine and lifting off to take them to the UAE. The helicopter remained silent aside from the sound of the engine and blades cutting the night air. What all needed to be said? Himself, Baptiste, Tracer, they all had the same goal at this point; kill Makarov.

* * *

_July 1st, 2016_

_Dubai, United Arab Emirates_

_23:34:05_

“You’re sure this armor will protect us?” Baptiste asked, flipping a massive helmet around and putting it on his head.

“It’ll buy us time,” Price replied. MacMillan had come through, thankfully, providing them with suits of high-tier armor, the sort primarily used by EOD teams. Today, it’d help them push through the small army Makarov had on-hand to defend this hotel. “Tracer, are you patched into their system?”

“Working on it,” she replied. “My Arabic’s a little rusty!”

Outside the armored van, bullets began to impact it as gunfire erupted.

“Looks like they know we’re here,” Baptiste said, smirking.

Price nodded, putting his helmet on and chambering a round in his machine gun. It was almost time. He could feel it.

“I’ve tapped into their security feed!” Tracer said. “Makarov’s in the atrium on the top floor.”

“This is it. Makarov doesn’t leave here alive.” Price took a deep breath, standing up in the truck and preparing to kick open the rear doors. “This is for Soap.”

The doors opened, and in unison Baptiste and Price charged out. Security officers, wearing nothing more than light ballistic vests and small-caliber submachine guns, panicked as they were suddenly brought face to face with two heavily-armored men wielding machine guns. He and Baptiste slowly walked down the access road to the hotel, with deadly intent for Makarov and his men.

“We got their attention,” Price said. “Second wave of responders will be coming any moment.”

Baptiste began shooting the cars they arrived in on, causing one of them to careen to the side and flip itself over. Time to pick up the pace.

“Makarov’s got a small army in there!” Tracer reported.

“Won’t help him,” Price said. “Take control of the lifts so he can’t escape!”

“On it!”

They neared the entrance itself, still mowing down security guards like blades of grass against a lawnmower. Civilians flooded out from the lobby, probably evacuating to get away from the incoming attack.

“Tracer, talk to me, where’s Makarov?”

“Still in the atrium, but he’s moving!”

“Don’t lose him!” Baptiste shouted. “We’re almost there!”

They charged up the escalator, through a small foyer, and then into a waiting lift that Tracer had provided for them, shoving civilians out of the way. The doors on the lift closed, providing an excellent view of Dubai from where they were at. Shame that they couldn’t stay here long.

“Alright, Makarov’s moved to the restaurant, same floor,” Tracer said. “He’s got a large security detail with him.”

“What kind of opposition’s waiting for us?” Price asked.

“Uh… forty plus foot mobiles?” Tracer said. “SMGs and assault rifles, looks like. Uh… more bad news! Enemy helos moving in on you!”

Price looked out the cracked glass, watching one rise up. Looked like a pair of standard Hueys. “One’s going to the roof, probably going for Makarov.”

“Let’s take it down,” Baptiste said, opening fire with his machine gun. Price joined in, sending bullets out to the helicopter in an attempt to make sure it couldn’t interfere with them as it raked the lift with gunfire. Smoke began to pour out of it, following up quickly by a fire as it began to spiral out of control.

“Oh shit,” Baptiste said. “Look out!”

The helicopter spiraled towards them, throwing lit aviation fuel on them. Baptiste screamed involuntarily as Price watched him fall on the floor. Price began throwing his armor off – it was useless now, burnt and shot up. Nothing worth keeping on. They’d have to do this the old-fashioned way. He helped Baptiste up and take off his armor. For right now, their lift had stopped. Baptiste asked Tracer to provide another one.

A massive shudder. Their lift was about to fall, just as the other one began to come up to them. Price shot out the glass on the other lift, jumping across in unison with Baptiste. Time to continue the fight.

“Makarov’s chopper just touched down!” Tracer said. “He’s heading there now! I figure four minutes before he’s gone!”

“He’s _not_ getting away,” Price declared.

“Be careful! They’re setting up barricades.”

They reached the restaurant floor, and at once Baptiste charged out the door, with Price close behind. Gunfire consumed the area as they both fired back, working in tandem to take down Makarov’s men as Tracer called out where groups of hostiles were.

“Watch yourself, Baptiste!” Price shouted. “Your armor’s gone!”

Baptiste waved him off, maneuvering in between overturned chairs and collections of tables assembled in hasty defenses. They had passed the restaurant now, on their way to the roof when the sound of another helicopter filled the air. This one was a Hind, circling around to them.

“Rockets!” Price yelled.

The Hind shot off its rocket pods, consuming the area with flame and explosions as Price was knocked off his feet. All lights in the room shut off as parts of the roof and window walls disappeared, and a support was blown apart entirely. The floor tilted, and Price began to slide down. He latched onto a piece of steel, saving himself from falling off to a certain death below. As he pulled himself up, he saw Baptiste just next to him.

Except there was a piece of rebar sticking through his chest. Baptiste groaned in pain, staring at the thing that clearly should not have been in him. Price could do little but look at him, feeling his stomach drop. Not this, not now. He didn’t have any love for Baptiste, but he did _not_ deserve this. He didn’t deserve to die out here, with a piece of metal through him. Price shakily stood up, getting his balance back as he moved closer to Baptiste. Maybe he could help? Do something?

“Leave me!” Baptiste shouted, shaking his head and waving Price off. “Don’t let him get away!”

Price drew a sharp breath, nodding sharply and breaking into a sprint. _This is for Soap. Gaz. Baptiste. Griggs. Everyone you’ve killed, you rat bastard._

“Makarov’s heading to the roof!” Tracer reported. Price followed suit, climbing up a pile of debris to reach the helipad. He arrived just as Makarov’s helicopter lifted off the ground, jumping off the edge and latching on to the undercarriage. Price pulled himself up, watching the pilot look over and try to kick him off. Price slugged him, pulling him out of the helicopter and himself in.

Copilot next. She tried to wrestle with the controls to restabilize the helicopter and pull a pistol to shoot Price at the same time. She shot too early, sending a bullet into the control panel as Price maneuvered his knife around to stab her in the neck, but now there was a new problem as she began bleeding out. The helicopter was out of control. Price tried to regain control as it began to spin, but ultimately found it worthless as the helicopter slammed back into the helipad. Price was flung from the helicopter onto the glass roof of the hotel.

He looked down at himself, watching blood drip out of his nose. Something else hurt, but in the chaos he wasn’t sure what. Just ahead of him, the helicopter was burning, missing its tail. Makarov – the _bastard_ – stumbled out of it, apparently no worse for wear. Sirens emanated from the distance as Price began to pull himself towards Makarov, a gun in between them. It had to be enough. Makarov saw it too, limping his way towards it as he clutched his chest. Good, so the bastard _was_ in pain.

Just as Price grabbed the gun, Makarov stood up and stomped on his hand, forcing him to release it. He picked it up with ease, standing over Price like a victorious champion at a coliseum. With intense hatred in his face, he aimed it at Price’s head, scowling at him. “Goodbye, Captain Price,” Makarov muttered.

Before he could pull the trigger, another shot rang out. Price turned to the left to see Baptiste had pried himself free of the rebar, using his pistol to shoot Makarov, but his shots went wide. Makarov recovered quickly from being shot in the shoulder, shooting Baptiste twice in the chest, and then once in the head to finish him off. Price, having found his second wind, lunged up and began to choke Makarov, slamming him to the glass roof.

Now on top of him and having regained momentum, Price began to punch Makarov ruthlessly, pausing only to wrap a cord around his neck like a noose. He slammed Makarov’s head into the glass repeatedly, hearing it crack and bend under the strain. One more good slam, and then this would be over. He fell with Makarov, somehow launching himself onto a floor below as Makarov’s body swung back and forth. There was no coming back from this. Makarov was well and truly dead, his limp body acting like a pendulum.

As the sirens grew louder, Price sighed as he crawled backwards, broken glass crunching and tingling under him. Every part of him hurt, and he was bleeding from who-knows-where at this point, but he had done it. Price flicked his lighter open, staring at Makarov as he smoked one final cigar.

Soap had been avenged.


	15. Dust to Dust

_June 2nd, 2016_

_Dubai, United Arab Emirates_

_00:07:22_

“Price?” Tracer asked, her voice crackling. Sounded like his headset was a bit busted up.

“Here, Tracer,” Price muttered, groaning against the pain. “What d’you need?”

“Uh, well… I’m getting some radio traffic about Dubai police heading your way, and…” she paused, a hesitated, almost afraid breath escaping from the radio. “I’m not getting anything from Baptiste.”

Price sighed, tapping away ashes on his cigar. He’d have to confront this at some point. Judging from how they talked to each other, she and Baptiste were close. This might hurt her even more than it did Soap.

His stomach falling into the depths once more, he keyed on his mic again. “Lena, I’m… there’s no real easy way to say this. Makarov killed him.”

He closed his eyes as he heard first her gasp of disbelief, followed up by a quiet “no.” That too was soon replaced by the sound of her sobbing over the radio. He wished he would never have to hear anything like this again for the rest of her life. In just one short week, both of their worlds had collapsed in short order, and it seemed like their list of friends grew smaller with each day.

“I’m sorry,” Price eventually said, even as her sobbing filled his headset.

“Did he suffer?” Tracer asked in between gasps for air.

What a hell of a question. He surely had been killed quickly by the bullets, but Price was sure extracting himself from the rebar had been a hell of an effort, probably filled to the brim with pain and struggle. “No,” he said. “It was quick.”

Slowly, Tracer’s cries turned less to heavy, heaving sobs, and more to whimpers and loud sniffs that were clear as day over the radio. She paused, breathing deeply as if she had been drowning in her own emotions and needed fresh air. “I… I wanted to talk about so much with him. How can he be gone, Price?”

“I know it’s tough to hear, but you still have your memories. Hang onto those.”

“All my memories suck,” she said, laughing weakly. “Just… bollocks about Chicago and the argument we had on the helicopter. I… I never told him much about what he meant to me.”

“We think we’ve got all the time in the world, Lena,” Price muttered. “Never know when that time runs out.”

“I, uh… I don’t suppose you were ever able to say anything to Soap, huh?”

Price sighed, bowing his head. “No. I wish I had. Soap was a bloody warrior, the kind of man that only comes around every once in a while. But I avenged him. He can rest easy now. Baptiste can rest easy now. Makarov’s dead.”

“Yeah. I guess… I guess that makes it easier. What d’you think they’ll do with us after this?”

“Give us a long bloody holiday, I hope.”

* * *

_October 5th, 2016_

_Credenhill, United Kingdom_

_13:45:24_

Price sighed as he stood next to Tracer at the clock tower, a near-exact copy of the one at Hereford. He traced the names, going one by one over them until he saw Gaz’s, and then Soap’s. So many had been lost, at King’s Row, in Russia, and now in Prague. The only benefit now was that he knew it was over. Tensions between the US and Russia thawed out, died down as the two powers agreed to reconcile their differences and bring the men responsible for inciting tensions between them to justice. Good thing he and Soap had killed the men responsible, but like always, governments found new people to blame.

“They were brave men,” an American-accented voice behind them said. Price and Lena turned to see a black woman in an immaculate black jacket and skirt standing behind them, her hands folded in front of her. “I would have been honored to have met them.”

“Thank you,” Tracer said. “But, uh-”

“Who am I? I’m the acting director of Team Rainbow. We’ve been reactivated for some time now. Captain Price, your friend MacMillan pulled a lot of strings to make sure nobody arrested you the minute you stepped foot here.”

“So I’ve heard,” Price muttered. “What’s an American want with us?”

She smiled, nodding. “Well, lady and gentleman, you both have certain skills. Skills that I think would be useful for Team Rainbow. So, why don’t you join us? Come back into the fold.”

Price nodded, folding his arms. “Suppose we say yes. What’s the idea?”

The woman stepped forward, handing them a dossier. “Prosecuting kill-capture orders on former Overwatch agents, as well as known members of Talon and other individuals that we believe pose a threat to the world. You’ll be working with some of the best men and women from around the world.”

“And if we say no?” Tracer asked.

“Then I have my men execute the capture order on _your_ heads,” she replied.

“Seems fair enough,” Price muttered. “Well, Tracer? Think you’re up to it?”

Tracer took a deep breath, looking over the dossier she had that told her all about Rainbow and provided only a preview of the people she’d be working with. “Angela’s here,” she said quietly. “Well, I suppose it can’t be all bad. Uh, what do we call you?”

The woman smiled, taking the dossiers back. “For now, Six is appropriate. Good luck, you two. I’m sure you both know the way to headquarters from here. Your first assignments will be coming soon.”


End file.
